


Save Me or Let Me Drown

by GubraithianFire



Series: The Watsons [1]
Category: Shameless (US), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bipolar Disorder, Clubbing, Come Shot, Custody Battle, Dysfunctional Family, Explicit Sexual Content, Family Fluff, Handcuffs, Humor, John Loves Sherlock, Kid Fic, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Sherlock Loves John, Shower Sex, Smut, UPDATES ARE EVERY TWO WEEKS!, and sherlock loves all of john's siblings so much, i have two little brothers i know what the fuck kids get up to, this is literally a johnlock version of shameless I regret nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 10:45:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 72,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4826171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GubraithianFire/pseuds/GubraithianFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes was nineteen when he decided he'd had enough. Uni was dull, his family smothering, cocaine too expensive after his trust fund was cut. There was no utility in pursuing a degree in Chemistry, not when he was so good at stealing cars and could make his own money. He had no reason to stay. So he left. </p><p>John Watson was nineteen when his absent mother dumped on him her last daughter. She disappeared (again) while his father drank himself numb every night (typical).<br/>With six younger siblings to take care of, uni was an impossible dream. They had no one except for him. So he stayed. </p><p> </p><p>Or: how Sherlock escaped from his family, John sacrificed everything to his, and how, together, they built their own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Watsons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This story is dedicated to[Mssmithlove](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mssmithlove/pseuds/Mssmithlove), who loves (*cough* hates *cough*) Shameless just as much as I do, and was thrilled with this idea when I told her about it, showering me in kind words when she read this first chapter last night. Thank you, McKenzie._
> 
> Wow, good job Casper, start another multi chaptered story, add a third WIP to your works *clap clap*
> 
> I apologise in advance if the editing is shit - my computer got a virus and now I don't have Microsoft Words on it, so I'm writing on Google Docs and my phone. I have no idea how it will work. Oh, well. 
> 
> Now, this story is literally Shameless US with BBC Sherlock characters, but you don't need to have watched the series to enjoy it (although maybe it would do you good to know how fucking angsty this show is before reading this, just saying).
> 
> This is all, for now! Enjoy :)

He was beautiful.

His golden hair shone on the dancefloor, catching the now purple, now green, now yellow, now blue light of the club. Sherlock stared at the man as he laughed, swaying his hips in time with the music, the brunette girl with him giggling as she leaned with her weight on him.

He was wearing a dark brown leather jacket and tight black jeans that beautifully emphasized his round arse. Sherlock licked his lips.

God, he wanted that man.

He looked harder at him, trying to deduce his relationship with the woman who was currently screaming something in his ear. He put a hand on her shoulder, laughing again and Sherlock smirked. Just friends then.

Perfect.

He leaned against the handrail, steepling his hands under his chin. From above he had such a perfect view. He was almost scared to descend the staircase that lead from the VIP area to the dancefloor. He didn't want to lose sight of the short, gorgeous man downstairs.

Suddenly, a movement caught his eye. Even with his mind slowed by the alcohol, it would have been impossible for him to miss the kid (he couldn't be older than sixteen) who approached the golden man, and stole his wallet from his jeans.

"Hey!" Sherlock yelled, even though he couldn’t possibily hear him, then started to run down the stairs and after the kid. He barely noticed that the beautiful stranger and his friend were following him in his stride.

Sherlock managed to tackle the kid just as he was about to escape from the open doors. They tumbled to the floor, and Sherlock inadvertedly flipped over a little table with some drinks on it. The glasses shattered on the floor, making a few people gasp and turn in his direction.

A sharp pain erupted from his knee, but he ignored it, snatching the wallet from the kid's shaking hands. "Flee," he hissed, and the kid shot him a scared look before scrabbling to his feet and running out.

"Oi mate," said a voice of honey from behind him, and Sherlock froze.

He never heard that voice before, and yet he would recognise it everywhere.

Slowly, he turned, and yep, the man with golden hair and (now that Sherlock was close enough to see them) deep, blue eyes was staring down at him with worry and an outstratched hand.

"You alright?" the man asked, when Sherlock just stared up at him.

Shit, he probably looked like a moron.

"Yes, I... your wallet," Sherlock said, placing the item in the man's hand.

He looked down at it and then started laughing.

"Man, the hand was for you, not for the bleeding wallet."

Sherlock blinked at him, at his easy laugh, and the way it made his eyes crinkle at the corners.

Wordlessly, Sherlock grasped the man's hand, and electricity ran through his body, from where their skin met till his shoulderblades, making him shudder.

The man's hand was strong and calloused, and lifted Sherlock with ease.

"Hello," the stranger said amused, when Sherlock almost tripped over, ending up knocking their chests together.

The man was shorter than Sherlock had imagined, but that only added to his charm. He had a small, strong body, and Sherlock could see defined pectorals shifting under an incredibly tight white t-shirt.

Sherlock awkwardly took a step back, clearing his throat.

The stranger smirked at him, and Sherlock's knees wobbled.

 _Christ_ , Sherlock thought, _this man could do anything he wants to me and I would thank him_.

"Do you always run after pickpockets to save a stranger's wallet, Mr. ...?"

"Oh, I'm Sher-" he stopped, silently cursing his eagerness to answer. Fuck. If he gave his real name to someone, Mycroft would find him in an hour and take him back home, where he and his parents would talk to him about the importance of getting a degree, to then shut him in a rehab for months. No, thanks.

Sherlock shook his head.

"I'm Scott. I mean, Scott is my surname, my name is William. I don't know why I said I'm Scott, as if that's my name and not my- Sorry, I'm over talking, and no. I mean, no, I usually don't. Run after pickpockets, that is," he stopped, taking a deep breath and waving his hand around, feeling immensily foolish. But the stranger was smiling up at him, amused, so Sherlock sighed and asked, "And you are?"

"John Watson," the man grinned toothily, grasping Sherlock's hand and God help him, he shivered again.

John patted the bulge in his pocket, "Thank you for getting my wallet back, William."

"You'd probably have got it back yourself, you felt the kid slipping it out of your pocket, and you were a few steps behind me. You're fit, you probably go running in the morning and used to practice a sport, rugby is my guess. You'd have caught the kid even if I hadn't been here."

John gaped at him for long moments, and Sherlock inwardly cursed himself. _Don't deduce the people you're hitting on, don't deduce the people you're hitting on, don't-_

"Do we know each other?" John asked, and Sherlock shook his head, sighing, already knowing what was coming.

"How the fuck did you know all that?"

_And here we go._

"I... I..." Sherlock didn't know what to say. _I swear I'm not a creeper, please can I have your number?_ sounded a bit pathetic in his opinion.

But John did the most amazing thing. He shrugged.

"Is it my shoes?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously, and Sherlock froze. John looked up at him expectantly, and Sherlock nodded, answering in autopilot.

"Y-yes."

John nodded at the ground, "Is it the horrendous state they're in that gave away the running?" he asked in a low voice, and Sherlock wanted to yell, "YES!"

But he simply nodded again, stunned and, for the first time in his life, utterly speechless.

"What about the rugby bit though?" John tilted his head, and he looked so fucking beautiful that Sherlock forgot how to breathe for a whole three seconds.

"I, erm, the shoes were clearly used to play on grass a while ago, though you tried to clean them there are still green stains. The fact that there are traces of felt tip pen tells me team sport while you were in school. Your body type tells me rugby."

John stared at him for long seconds, then his eyes shone with unabashed awe.

"That's brilliant," John whispered, a blinding smile on his lips.

Sherlock released the breath he didn't know he was holding.

Who was that man? Where the hell had he come from? Sherlock's heart couldn't stop racing like mad.

"That's weird," he eventually told John, who furrowed his brow in response.

"What is?"

"A normal person would tell me to shut the fuck up and piss off."

John barked out a laugh then, and Sherlock found it incredibly contagious.

"I guess I'm not normal then," John eventually said, and when he looked up at Sherlock from under his lashes, their gazes locked for a long amount of time - too long to be mistaken for anything other than attraction.

 _Yes_ , Sherlock thought. He had been an utter moron, and yet John's pupils were dilated, a soft blush spreading on his neck.

Someone behind John cleared their throat. They both started, and jerked their heads towards the sound.

"Oh, sorry," John let out an apologetic laugh, turning towards his friend, that Sherlock had completely forgotten about.

"Janine, this is William, and he's the hero who just saved my empty wallet. William, this is Janine, neighbour and friend," John smiled and gestured between the brunette girl behind him and Sherlock.

Janine shot a glare in John's direction. " _Best_ friend," she corrected him. John rolled his eyes but smiled fondly at her.

Janine took a step forward and shook Sherlock's hand, eyeing up and down. "Most _pleased_ to meet you, gorgeous," she purred, winking up at Sherlock.

Sherlock blinked at her for a few seconds, unsure of what to do.

"Erm, nice to meet you too?"

She laughed. "You don't have to look so scared," she said, and he smiled weakly at her.

John shook his head, clearly used to the girl's bubbliness, then clasped his hands together, "Well, why don't we get something to drin-"

"Oh my God your knee!" Janine suddenly exclaimed, pointing at Sherlock's right leg.

Sherlock looked down and saw that his jeans had ripped around the height of his knee, and that around the hole was a quite dramatic bloodstain. Sherlock frowned at his injury, having forgotten everything about it since John had started talking to him. Now that he was paying attention, he started to realise how badly it hurt.

"Oh, it's nothing," he said dismissively.

"Like hell," John muttered, kneeling in front of him. Sherlock nearly fainted at the sight, imagining how many wicked things John could do when on his knees in front of his crotch.

The pressing of a finger on his wound made him come back to reality with a flinch and a hissed curse.

"Nothing, uh?" John asked, staring at Sherlock with an unimpressed look. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I have a first aid kit at home, I could stitch you up," John offered, getting to his feet and looking at Sherlock expectantly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see Janine smirking knowingly, but he ignored her altogether. It was already embarassing as it was.

"I- yeah sure," he replied, nodding at John, who lit up like a sodding Christmas tree at his words.

"Great," he said, and after grabbing Sherlock's hand (gesture that made Sherlock's heart nearly collapse) they exited the club.

* * *

 

When John had offered to 'stitch him up', Sherlock had thought that the man was just using some excuse to get into his pants. Which would have been fine. More than fine, really.

What wasn't fine and was entirely unexpected, was the situation in which Sherlock found himself at this very moment.

He was currently sitting on a couch that had certainly seen better days, and that was covered in crumbs, cigarette burns and other fluids Sherlock rather not investigate. His fashion design jeans were long gone, tossed on the floor somewhere and replaced by a pair of rugby shorts that John had lent him. Around him, were gathered four people. A little blonde girl, a red-haired little boy, and two teenagers who looked utterly amused. Meanwhile, Janine was snuggling on an armchair with her girlfriend, of whom Sherlock still had to catch the name.

The only bright side in all of this was John, who was bandaging his wound with all the care in the world, as he spoke in soft tones.

"Tell me if it hurts."

Sherlock scoffed, "It barely stings."

John chuckled softly, and Sherlock marveled why the hell John found everything he said so goddamn deligthful.

"Care to introduce us?" The youngest kid suddenly asked, crossing her arms on her chest. She looked annoyed, as if she was expecting John to pay them more attention.

John sighed, smiling amusedly.

"William, these are my siblings. Siblings dear, this is William," John said, never once lifting his eyes from Sherlock's bleeding knee.

The girl, who, now that Sherlock noticed, strikingly looked like John (same shade of blonde, same blue eyes, no, slightly lighter, same ears) was now staring at Sherlock expectantly.

"Nice to meet you?" he said, thinking that was why the little girl was still glaring at him.

She rolled her eyes, "Aren't you gonna ask our names?"

John huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. "Rosie," he admonished.

The kid, (Rosie, apparently) groaned, annoyed.

"Now he knows my name, John!"

She looked utterly displeased, so Sherlock smiled up at her. "Let's start again?" He asked, and she looked at him with a furrowed brow.

"Hello, my name is William. What's your name?"

The girl seemed satisfied, and she grinned at him.

"Hi William, nice to meet you! I'm Rosie Watson. I'm eight years old, though I look older, or so people say," she chirped, and Sherlock had to bite back a laugh. She really did not look older, at all.

The little girl rambled on, "This is Casper."

As she was speaking, she pushed in front of her a child who looked about ten, or eleven, who was staring shyly at his feet. He had a wild mop of curly, red hair, and a pair of curious brown eyes.

"Hi," Sherlock said, and the boy acknowledged him with just a nod.

"These two are Harry and Susan," Rosie continued, gesturing towards the two teenage girls on her right.

"Nice to meet you," Sherlock said politely, and the two girls smiled at him.

They were both blond, but a darker shade than John. They seemed to be of the same age, but Sherlock suspected they had at least a year of difference. The one who looked younger (Harry, apparently) had very light green/blue eyes, and her hair was cut rather short. She was wearing an elaborate golden septum piercing, and an alarming amount of rings and bracelets. She was slightly taller than her sister, whose eyes were a darker blue, similar to John's. On Susan's forearm was an intricate tattoo of an owl.

"Here ya go," John said, and got up to give the first aid kit to Janine.

"Thanks," he said, "I was sure I had one, it must hav-"

Janine shushed him, "Don't mention it, it was for a good cause."

She winked then, wriggling her brows in Sherlock's direction, making Harry and Susan giggle.

"Well, Irene and I have places to be," Janine added, getting up and grabbing her girlfriend's hand.

"You mean your flat, just a door down ours?" John asked, amused, and Janine smiled at him.

“Precisely that.”  
Susan and Harry laughed again, and Janine smirked at them.

"Nice to meet you William!" she yelled from the doorframe.

"Same for me," Irene said, then the two disappeared through the door.

The door had just closed, when Susan grabbed Harry's arm and dragged her up the stairs.

"Where are you two going?" John asked, amused.

"Erm, Harry and I have some homework for tomorrow," Susan said nodding, and Harry snorted, clearly trying (and failing) to suppress a laugh.

Then they disappeared upstairs, and Sherlock could still hear them giggle.

John shook his head at the ceiling, but a smirk was playing at his lips.

"Not the first time you take someone home, I take it?" Sherlock asked, and John shook his head no, then winked at Sherlock. Embarissingly, he blushed.

"You make yourself home, I'm gonna put these two in bed. I'll be back in a mo," John said, thankfully ignoring Sherlock's flushed neck. He then took Rosie by the hand and followed Casper upstairs.

Sherlock looked around, taking everything in. The place was in such a state that yelled "absent parents!" from everywhere. Toys were thrown all around and there were all kinds of food and juice on the floor. Clothes, clean and dirty, were piled up in the centre of what could be called the living room, which only hosted the ratty couch where Sherlock was sitting, a small coffee table and an armchair. No TV in sight, no books, no knick-knacks.

Sherlock got up from the couch, hissing at the slight pain that he felt when he straightened his leg.

He walked towards the kitchen.

More clothes were piled in a heap in front of an old washing machine, the kitchen counter was stained with coffee, tomato sauce, orange juice, and various other organic matters.

Sherlock placed his hands on the counter and peered across from it, and found a small table, where the family clearly ate. There were only four chairs around it though, and a toddler’s high chair. An old thing of when Rosie was a kid or was there a toddler in the house? And how could the five of them eat on a table for four and a toddler?

Before he could get closer, a voice startled him from behind, "The kids have gone to bed."

Sherlock spun around, the kitchen counter digging painfully in the flesh of his lower back.

"I didn't hear you come downstairs."

John took a step forward, licking his lips.

He turned to his right, grabbing a glass and filling it with water from the tap.

"Want some?" he questioned, tilting the glass in Sherlock's direction.

Despite his throat was as dry as it could get, Sherlock shook his head, already shivering in anticipation of John's next move. He stared, hypnotized, as John shrugged, before downing the water in a quick swig, his Adam's apple bobbing enticingly.

John put the glass down then, and played with it with his fingers for a bit, tapping his pads over the rim.

"So," he started, almost hesitant, his eyes glued to the glass, "I'm sorry if this is completely nuts and all, but there at the club? All I could think about was kissing you."

Sherlock has always heard the expression of "feeling butterflies in one's stomach", but seriously? What he's experiencing right now? Not exactly butterflies, more like a fucking train running loose around his insides.

John looked up from his glass, fixing Sherlock with his blue eyes.

Sherlock tried to swallow around the lump in his throat, but that was proving to be a difficult (if not impossible) task. It suddenly felt vital that he said the right thing.

Time stilled.

It had never felt this important. He went to a club, saw a boy he liked, flirted, let the guy fuck him, ta very much, see you soon and leave. Easy.

So why were his knees wavering, why was his stomach flipping over itself, why was there a painful lump in his throat that prevented him from speaking?

John must have read something in his eyes, because he smiled and took a few steps forth, successfully crowding Sherlock aganist the kitchen counter.

John leaned forward, his hands splayed on the tile on either sides of Sherlock's waist, his hot breath a mere centimetres away from his neck, his intoxicating smell all but surrounding Sherlock, blurring his vision, making him shiver.

"Can I...?" John asked, his voice soft, tilting his chin up, his lips ghosting over Sherlock's.

Sherlock couldn't answer, not verbally at least, so he ducked his head down and his lips met John's.

It was... different. A different kiss in a way Sherlock couldn't quite pinpoint. People said such ridiculous things about kisses. They said that they were like "fireworks", like "the colour of a constellation falling into place."

As much as Sherlock liked Alex Turner, he had to disagree because, well, he may not have known what colour a constellation had, but that was clearly not what one felt when kissing John Watson.

It was a detonation.

It was completely destructive.

Life changing.

Something broke in Sherlock's heart, like he'd found something long after he had given up looking for. John's lips were soft under his, and they moved slowly, sensually.

Two hands settled around his waist, pulling him forward.

John opened his mouth then, and Sherlock found it was easy prying his own open, giving John full access, tilting his head to get a better angle.

He was overwhelmed. How could this happen to people without them dying, or self combusting? Sherlock wasn't entirely sure he was going to survive this. His heart was beating too fast, almost tachycardic. Maybe he should ask John to stop. Tell him he was on the verge of a coronary, and that he should be taken to the nearest hospital _right now_. 

But John's tongue was doing _something_ against the roof of his mouth that had Sherlock's toes curl, and he couldn't possibly stop. He would have died happy, at least.

At some point, John's hands had managed to insinuate beneath Sherlock's shirt, and his clever, oh so clever fingers were now roaming all over Sherlock's torso.

Ghosting over his back, trailing over his hipbone, teasing a nipple, bringing him closer.

Sherlock moaned loudly, and felt John shiver against him.

"Can I... Can I see you?" he asked, voice trembling, blue eyes growing dark.

"Fu- Yes, please, yes."

John groaned and unbottoned Sherlock's shirt hastily, ripping a couple of buttons here and there, but Sherlock couldn't care less.

He helped John free him from the sleeves, then he was bare chested in front of him.

John licked his lips, eyes never leaving Sherlock's torso, hands securely gripping his hips.

"God, look at you."

He bent down, kissing his sternum.

"Perfect," he whispered before closing his mouth around a nipple.

Sherlock didn't know the reason why he gasped so loudly. Perhaps the sensation, or John's whispered compliment, or a mix of both.

Nevertheless, no one had ever called Sherlock perfect, never. It had felt… good. But what did this John Watson know about him? Nothing. It was just a passing comment. Sherlock shouldn't ponder about it so much.

"John, I need to touch you," he said urgently, surprised to hear his voice come out so husky and trembling.

John looked up from his under his lashes, "My pleasure," he said, and in a handful of seconds his leather jacket had joined Sherlock's shirt on the floor, his white t-shirt soon following.

Sherlock watched, enthralled, the muscles in John's abdomen shift as he wriggled out of the tight fabric. _That_ was perfect. Definitely. Undoubtedly. Mathematically.

When John's eyes met Sherlock's, the blonde smiled wickedly.

"Well, touch me then," he said, his voice so low and dark and Sherlock needn't be told twice.

He grabbed John by his shoulders, bringing his compact, solid body against his leaner one, running his hands up and down John's back (feeling the muscles beneath shift with John's pelvic movements, and dear Lord, will someone have mercy for Sherlock's soul). Sherlock latched his mouth onto John's neck, licking at his pulse, smelling the sweet spot behind his ear. John groaned, rubbing his hardness against Sherlock's thigh, making him gasp, seeking friction himself. 

John's hands started playing with the band of those silly rugby shorts Sherlock was still wearing, as though asking for permission.

"Go ahead," Sherlock breathed, and John groaned, shoving his hand in Sherlock's pants, taking his erection in his firm grip.

Sherlock's breath stuttered, his heart beating faster and faster, knees bucking because _this was so good_.

It was ridiculous - this was hardly the first handjob Sherlock had received. And though John's technique was admirable (teasing the foreskin and trailing feather light fingers on sensitive skin, feeling every vein before gripping securely and pull, and then rubbing a thumb over the head and _oh God_ ), Sherlock was certain that something else was lurking in the background. But he could barely function right now, and it felt so damn good. He could think about what it all meant another time. 

"Is this... Is this how you wanna do it?" John broke the silence, breathing hard against Sherlock's collarbone.

"Y-You mean is this how I-ah wanna come?"

John nodded frantically against his skin.

"N-no," he managed to stutter out.

John stilled his hand and _dammit_ , Sherlock would have given everything to make him go on.

"I-I want you to fuck me," he whispered, and John gasped.

"Oh fuck," John said, before smashing their mouths together again.

This time, John's hands didn't play around the band of Sherlock's shorts, but yanked them down.

Sherlock let him, stepping out of the fabric pooled at his feet, toeing off his shoes in the process.

Sherlock placed his hands flat on John's chest and pushed him away, reaching down to unbotton the man's jeans.

As he worked on them, John's hands tangled in his hair, tugging lightly, and Sherlock's vision blurred.

He moaned loudly, "Do it again, please."

John chuckled softly, "Liked that, did you?"

He took a step closer to Sherlock, whose hands were frozen on the hem of John's jeans.

John brought both his hands up, running his fingers on Sherlock's scalp, making him shiver, his cock twitching painfully inside his tight pants.

Then, unexpectedly, John grabbed a handful of curls and pulled.

"Aah!" Sherlock exclaimed, so overwhelmed by pleasure that his hips canted forward.

"Wow," John whispered, mouth agape, eyes dark and wide.

"John," Sherlock pleaded, and John unbuttoned his jeans hastily, stepping out of them before crowding Sherlock against the counter once again.

As his mouth roamed over the side of Sherlock's neck (from his ear to his trapezius and down to his shoulder and then up, up again, hot breath eliciting goosebumps on the way), John hooked his fingers in Sherlock's waistband, peeling his boxers down. When his flushed, needy erection met the cool air of the kitchen, Sherlock gasped, and John bit down on his shoulder.

"Oh, shit," Sherlock whispered, unable to to say anything else.

"Gorgeous," John said, mouthing at his clavicole, and Sherlock could hardly breathe.

Who was this man? This man who wasn't freaked out by his deductions, who said he was brilliant and perfect and gorgeous, this man who apparently lived alone with four younger siblings and took care of the house and was so fucking beautiful he took Sherlock's breath away?

"Do you have anything?" John startled him out his thoughts, placing one hand firmly on his lower back and the other on his hip.

"I-I have lube and c-condoms in my jeans."

John groaned in annoyance, then turned on his heels and trotted towards the living room.

Sherlock stared at the muscles of his back and his legs and his neck as John knelt on the floor to rummage through Sherlock's pockets.

His cock twitched painfully against his belly, just looking at John's clothed arse resting on his crossed ankles.

"A-ha!" John finally exclaimed, getting up and walking towards Sherlock with a victorious smile, packet of lube and condom proudly held in a hand above his head.

Sherlock giggled watching him come back, as John bowed as if in front of an invisible cheering crowd.

"Mission accomplished," he said, and immediatly after, "Catch!"

Sherlock barely had the time to register the order, a condom hit him square in the face.

"Shit, sorry," John murmured, but his tone wasn't apologetic at all, and an involutary smile was playing at the corners of his lips.

Sherlock glared at him, but that only made John burst into laughter.

"My god, your fucking face, Will!"

Sherlock felt a grin slowly spread across his lips, and few moments later he was laughing with John, his erection flagging and the muscles in his abdomen hurting.

That was weird.

Sherlock had never laughed during sex. That was just What People Don't Do during sex. It was a matter of release, and there was no need to get too close to the other person, but most importantly there was nothing about that messy and sticky ordeal that deserved the appellative "fun". And yet, when John had laughed, Sherlock had found it was extremely hard to keep a straight face. But it wasn't just that he was laughing during sex that was unusual. What was totally out of line was that he was laughing at all. So much that the muscles in his jaw ached, and he could feel his laughter in his stomach, and his eyes were wet. Sherlock rarely ever laughed these days.

"Christ," John said, his laughter dissolving in a fit of lovely sounding giggles.

Sherlock beamed at him, at his rosy cheeks and sunny smile, at his messy hair and sparkling eyes.

John came closer, stopping mere millimetres from Sherlock's face.

"Where were we?" he asked, and the mood changed suddenly.

Sherlock smiled down at him, "I think you were going to fuck me, Mr. Watson," he replied.

"Oh, that, right," John joked, ripping the lube packet open. Suddenly, he froze.

"How do you wanna... I mean, how do you wanna do it?"

Sherlock blinked at him.

"You mean what position I prefer?"

John nodded, staring up at him expectantly.

Sherlock gaped at the man. No one of his one night stands had ever asked him so many questions.

'Can I kiss you?', 'Can I see you?', 'Is this how you wanna come?', 'How do you wanna do it?'

It was like John was always asking for permission, always giving Sherlock a way out. Sherlock was speechless.

"I... It's the same, really, I mean, whatever you prefer," he managed to stutter out at last, still confused.

"You're not used to people letting you choose, are you?"

John's question felt like a lightning in his brain. Of course he wasn't. That was why he had left uni. That was why he had left his family. To decide for himself what was best for him, to do what he pleased.

He glared down at John, "I like kissing while I do it, so it would be best if we faced each other."

It wasn't true; he usually preferred not looking in the face of who was fucking him, but John was different, somehow. He had only kissed him for the first time not twenty minutes ago, and he was already addicted.

John grinned up at him like he had said the most intelligent thing on earth. "Me too," he said.

Then he bent down and took his t-shirt with his free hand. "Scoop up," he told Sherlock, positioning it on the floor in front of the kitchen counter. He peeled his boxers off then, throwing them to the side, and sat down on the white fabric.

He slapped his hands on his thighs twice, in invitation. "Sit down then."

Sherlock slowly lowered his body on John's lap, knees bracketing the man's legs.

"Does your knee hurt?" John questioned, brow furrowed in apprehension. Sherlock shook his head. Weirdly, his knee was more than fine.

"Condom ready?" John asked, and Sherlock stretched to the right to retrieve the condom that had landed there a few minutes before.

John did nothing then, smiling wickedly at Sherlock, head and back resting against the kitchen counter, legs stretched out, hands on either side of Sherlock's hips.

Sherlock tilted his head in a silent question. John's smile broadened.

"Well, kiss me then."

Sherlock huffed out a laugh before sinking his mouth to meet John's.

He felt John's grin under his own, and he couldn't resist licking the outline of it.

He was so focused in kissing John that he almost didn't feel the cold finger circling his entrance. Then, the first phalanx of John's finger was in him, and he gasped into John's mouth. John's finger went up, and up, and up, till Sherlock was emitting a series of soft, breathy yelps against John's open mouth. 

"That's it, babe," John murmured, his own breathing ragged, his upper lip touching Sherlock's.

John's finger disappeared, leaving Sherlock feeling empty and craving for more.

And then there it was again. And after that there were two fingers, scissoring him open, working at the rim of tight muscles.

Sherlock's brain had stopped forming coherent thoughts, the only stimuli reaching him the feeling of John's fingers in him, John's now hard cock against the inside of his thigh, John's hot breath in his open mouth, John, John, John.

Then John crooked one of his fingers and Sherlock jerked away, throwing his head back.

"Look at your fucking neck," John murmured, and moments later his lips were on Sherlock's throat, "So fucking long."

"John, please."

Sherlock was ready. God, couldn't John see that he was so fucking ready?

"You sure?"

Oh, fuck. "Yes," he growled.

"Okay then," John said, taking his hand away from Sherlock's hole.

"Condom," he asked, but he yet had to finish uttering the word that Sherlock had ripped the condom open with his teeth, and was rolling it onto John.

John chuckled, "Someone's impatient, uh?"

Sherlock scoffed, "Just fuck me already."

"Most gladly," John said, gripping the base of his cock with a hand and Sherlock's hip with the other.

Sherlock braced himself on John's shoulder, sinking down as slowly as he could on John's hardness.

It burnt a bit. Maybe he wasn’t quite as ready as he thought, John had used only two fingers after all. That would hurt like in the morning.

But who cared, when John was staring at himself disappear into him with that face?

When Sherlock had John all the way inside, he stopped a moment to catch his breath, to adjust. To just get used to the feeling.

"William, I'm sorry but I... I really need you to move."

John's voice was strained, at least one octave lower than before, and gruff. It sent shivers all down Sherlock's spine.

Sherlock nodded and John let out a relieved breath, that dissolved into a sharp intake of air when Sherlock rolled his hips.

God was that glorious. Sherlock’s arm circled John’s neck, holding him close, kissing him deeply, messily. He moved his hips again, swallowing every curse and every moan that escaped John’s mouth. John suddenly pulled at the hair on Sherlock’s nape, making him almost scream. He slapped one hand over his mouth, “Your siblings, sorry.”

John shook his head, “Don’t worry about that. Kiss me.”

Sherlock did as he was told, and this time John pulled Sherlock’s head against his, and when, a few seconds later, John’s cock brushed against his prostate, his whimper was muffled by John’s mouth.

This didn’t feel like a one night stand. This wasn’t the usual rough shag in a club’s bathroom or a ratty couch somewhere. Even though they were desperately rocking on a soiled kitchen floor, Sherlock could feel a sense of intimity wash all over him. It was like-

Right then, someone knocked on the door. Hard.

Sherlock and John froze, staring at each other like two deers in the headlights.

“Police,” a sharp voice yelled.

“Shit!” John exclaimed, as he and Sherlock separated and scrambled to their feet, trying to dress while jumping all around the kitchen.

“For fuck’s sakes,” Sherlock muttered, when he looked around for his pants and didn’t find them. He just put back the rugby shorts and ran to John, who was struggling against his tight t-shirt.

He grabbed the hem and helped John pull it down. Then he smoothed his tousled sex hair (even if Sherlock would have liked to leave John looking that debauched), as John hastily buttoned his jeans.

“John!” The policeman at the door yelled, “I know you’re in, I see the bloody lights are on! If you don’t open I’m gonna have to take him to the central.”

John huffed, “Coming, Greg!”

Sherlock cocked his head, “You know him?”

John nodded, scrubbing a hand over his face, “Detective Sergeant Lestrade. Family friend.”

Sherlock froze at the name. Shit.

_Shitshitshitshit_

“I need to use the loo,” he blurted out, and turned on his heels, ignoring the quizzical look John shot him. He flew up the stairs and sat down, breathless, against a wall.

“Calm the fuck down,” he whispered to the empty corridor, “You’re just being paranoid.”

He’d been away from home for almost one year. Perhaps his brother and the cop had broken up in the meantime? Okay but even if that _were_ the case, he couldn’t risk Greg phoning Mycroft. The overbearing git would appear on the Watsons’ doorstep in two seconds flat. Shit.

He listened carefully, and heard John’s voice thanking Greg, then whispers too low for him to hear and the sound of what seemed a heavy weight being tossed on the ground.

He was still listening, when the door in front of him opened.

In the frame appeared a tiny child, all mussed hair and bleary eyes, who was holding a giant bee toy to his chest with an arm and rubbing one eye with the other. His eyes were a dark shade of grey mixed with green, and his hair was incredibly light. He looked like a three year-old miniature version of John Watson.

The toddler stared at him, tiredly tilting his head to one side in a silent question.

Sherlock frowned at him and the kid mimicked the gesture, clutching the bee tighter.

Just as Sherlock was about to say something ( _anything_ ) to him, Rosie appeared from behind him and scooped him up, balacing him on her hip.

“Sorry Will,” she said, as the baby hid his face in her shoulder, “But Jane moves a lot while she sleeps and she hit Gabe.”

“Jane?” Sherlock questioned, because he didn’t remeber being introduced to any Jane earlier. How many people lived in that house?

“Mmh mmh,” Rosie answered, nodding.

“She usually sleeps in John’s room, because she’s only eleven months old, but Harry thought that tonight John might have wanted the room all for himself, I don’t know why, so she asked me to sleep with her. And I don’t mind, really, but she wriggles a lot in her sleeps, and I already share my bed with Gabe, and he’s a light-sleeper, and John says that runs in the family, plus…”

Rosie went on talking, but Sherlock tuned her out. His mind was buzzing, and Gabe really did look like John, and Jane was so very young, and there were no parents around, and what if-

“Rosie, what are you doing still up?” John’s voice startled Sherlock. He hadn’t heard the man come up. He sounded awfully tired all of a sudden.

Rosie blushed, “Gabe woke up because Jane woke him up so I came here to get him back to bed and found William sitting here so I told him what happened.”  
John bent down and kissed Rosie’s head, then took Gabe in his arms, bee toy and all.

“Go to bed, you look knackered, princess.”  
Rosie smiled up at him, then grinned at Sherlock and disappeared in the room.

John sat down on the floor beside Sherlock, Gabe slowly drifting off to sleep on his chest.

“Do you have problems with the law?” John asked, staring at the closed door in front of them, his hand caressing Gabe’s head soothingly.

Sherlock blinked at him, “What?”

John sighed, and turned his face towards Sherlock.

“I’m not a moron. I saw that you recognized Greg’s name, and you ran up the stairs like a chased animal after I mentioned him.”

Sherlock flinched, despising the idea of having been so goddamn obvious.

“I, erm, I…” he tried to form a coherent answer, but nothing came to his mind.

John sighed again. “ ‘ts okay,” he murmured, but he sounded so, so tired and defeated. Sherlock didn’t like it.

He tried to change the subject.

“So, erm, Jane and Gabe, are they, you know.”

John furrowed his brow in confusion. Sherlock waved his hands around, and suddenly John’s eyes weren’t a calm blue sea anymore, but an ocean in a thunderstorm.

“They're my siblings, yes. Why?”

His tone was dangerous. Sherlock shivered upon hearing it.

And he couldn't help feeling so  _relieved_. For a moment he'd feared that Gabe and Jane were John's kids. He backtracked.

“I’m, I’m just… Offering to help, kinda? Because, you know, if you need anything, for them or I don’t know, I mean, taking care of six siblings can… can be challenging, I guess,” Sherlock trailed off, the look in John’s eyes absolutely murderous.

“Fuck you,” John growled.

“You come here with your fancy clothes and think you know everything about me, mmh? Oh poor John with no parents in sight and all these siblings to look after. Poor John with the dirty laundry on the floor and the broken washing machine. Poor John in the dangerous neighbourhood and the messy house. Fuck you, I can perfectly take care of all my younger siblings and I don’t need the help of a guy I just met who only wants to make his good deed by helping the poor ghetto kid so he can get a quick ‘thank you’ shag. You’re not that bad that you need to offer charity to people to get your way with them.”

Sherlock sat, frozen and breathless, wondering what the hell he had said that had triggered John so badly that he was now downright furious. He fought against the instinct to send John to hell and leave. He shouldn’t take it personally.

It was clear that John was talking from past experiences.

“I’m sorry, it wasn’t my aim to offend you,” he offered, but John scoffed.

“Just… leave please.”

Sherlock thought that being run over by a steamroller would have been less painful.

“John,” he started, but the man got up, Gabe peacefully asleep in his arms.

“You know the way out,” he finished, coldly, then stepped into a bedroom at the end of the corridor and shut the door.

Sherlock sat there, immobile, confused as to what the _fuck_ had just happened.

As if in a dream, he stood up and descended the stairs, finding himself in the darkened living room.

As he approached the door, his foot caught into something, and he ended up flat on his face on the floor.

He huffed a curse, and got up to his feet again, using the couch as leverage. Then he turned to look for the cause of his tumble, and froze.

On the floor, resting in a recovery position, was a blonde middle-aged man. He was wearing a ratty old jeans jacket, ripped in more than one spot. His sweat pants were too large and tied around his hips with a cord. On his grimy hair rested a wool hat, and his feet were shoved into too-large hiking boots.

Sherlock could see John’s nose in the man’s marred features. Rosie’s ears. Harry’s chin. Susan’s lips.

Their father.

Suddenly, it was clear to Sherlock why John didn’t want any help. Why he had reacted to badly at an offer of help, interpreting it as a show of pity.

His father was an alcoholic and drug addict.

John had probably had enough of people pitying him.

Sherlock looked down at them man in disgust. He’d made up his mind.

This wasn’t going to be the last time he saw the Watsons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is 40% smut (yes, I calculated lmao), and since I'm still very nervous about explicit content, I'd like to know what you thought of it! 
> 
> Please leave a comment! I love hearing your thoughts/suggestions :)
> 
> See you next time! :)


	2. Monstherz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I went to Rome for a couple of days for my friend's birthday, and that is like, 10 hours of train in total? Well, I did good use of those hours and _wrote_.
> 
> Don't expect any update this quick any time soon, I'm starting uni in a few weeks! 
> 
> **IMPORTANT NOTE** : if you watch Shameless, you'll know about all the trigger warnings for that TV show. In the tags I put 'recreational drug use', but just to be clear: in this chapter some characters smoke weed and the tone about that is light. There's also a mention of pornography. If any of these disturb you, don't read further.

Violet Holmes had always taken pride in being unflappable.

Nothing could make her flinch, and since she was a kid, she had always been the kind of person other people called when they needed to kill a spider in the bathroom.

That was what Siger admired in her. When they had met in uni, he had been a soft, naïve boy, who had been admitted into Oxford just because of his family’s name. Holmes.

Violet appreciated the man’s kindness and his enthusiastic approach to life, although she had to admit he was a bit of a moron. He didn’t mind being reminded.

They were the perfect couple. Both beautiful, with an Oxford degree under their arm (Violet in Mathematics, Siger in Economics) and a steady job, they got married with everyone’s blessing. Even Siger’s family happily welcomed Violet amongst the Holmes, despite her poor upbringing. Not even a year later, their first son, Mycroft Christopher Spencer Holmes was born. He was the perfect baby.

He never cried, and was quick to learn, and immediatly independent. The whole family adored him, what with his dark grey eyes and his auburn hair and composed demeanour.

They said that he had taken his father’s looks, but his mother’s manners.

Violet didn’t have to quit her job to follow Mycroft's education; her husband always helped, as well as the family, and Mycroft was such a quiet, polite kid.

That was why, seven years later, she and Siger decided to have another baby. Another little Mycroft, whom they could cuddle and with whom to do it all again.

It had been such a pleasant experience.

When they announced to the family that they were waiting for another child, everyone was thrilled. Especially Mycroft.

Siger had been worried Mycroft could have felt jealous and betrayed, but Violet knew her son. If he were an inch like her, he’d be elated by the perspective of having someone to look after, someone he could shape and be responsible for.

Nothing could have prepared them for the arrival of Sherlock, though.

The child was the embodiment of a literal seism.

Despite her usual aplomb, Violet found that it was impossible not to feel one’s stomach in one’s throat, if this someone had just seen their youngest son hanging upside down from the family ancient chandelier.

She often found herself waking up in the middle of the night, her heart beating fast in her chest, after dreaming about Sherlock actually drinking the ink ampoule she had hidden earlier that day.

Precautions needed to be taken.

She quit her job as a university professor to stay at home with Sherlock. After all, no one in the family was willing to baby-sit for more than a couple of hours, and Sherlock had managed to drive all his nannies insane. Siger earned double what she did, and Mycroft was away at school. She had to be the one to stay with Sherlock and make sure he didn’t end up setting the house on fire.

“You’re protecting him too much,” Siger used to say.

“You decide everything for him, you never let him be hurt, how will he learn? Plus, Mycroft is picking up on your habit to wrap Sherlock up in cotton wool.”

Violet usually shrugged her husband’s comments off, believing them to be only partly true, nevertheless being convinced that Sherlock did need to be protected. He was reckless, and apparently unable to discern dangerous situations from safer ones. It appeared he lacked some kind of filter through that big brain of his and his mouth, and his deficiency in any kind of social skills made it hard for him to make any friends.

She tried to invite peers over, to make him play with Mycroft’s friends, but nothing worked. Everyone was driven away from Sherlock’s seeming rudeness and abrasiveness. She knew that her child meant well (most of the time), but he really did come across as a particularly caustic personality. Not that he appeared to mind.

All Sherlock cared about were his experiments, his dog and his big brother.

Violet still shivered remembering the day two of these things were taken away from him.

The day Mycroft left for college was in fact the day that Redbeard was taken down. Sherlock hadn’t spoken for a month after that.

It was Siger the one who managed to get Sherlock to talk again. But Violet knew something had broken in her little boy.

Thinking back about Sherlock’s childhood, Violet feared that Siger might have been right.

She had loved him too much.

That was probably why Sherlock had run away.

In his room at Cambridge, he had left a letter addressed to his parents. 

 

 

 

> Mother and Father,
> 
> Please don’t come looking for me. I have been told I’m a spoilt brat, and you often used to say that I have to learn what it means not to take everything for granted, that I'm not owed everything in life. Well, I’m agreeing with you, for once. I’m out. Making my own decisions.
> 
> Goodbye,
> 
> -SH

 

It was short, and not enough for a worried mother. Where was her son? Her son, who had a drug addiction ad was being kept in sight in fear of a relapse? Where was her son, whose trust fund had been cut, who had left leaving all the money he had in his drawer, who was so goddamn imprudent and had never had to be on his own?

Siger had yelled at her.

“I told you! I told you it was a matter of time before he started feeling suffocated by you and Mycroft but no! You kept protecting him, coddling him when we found out he was using cocaine - _cocaine_ , Violet. He’s never had to scrape by, he doesn’t know what he’s in for! You’ve never denied him everything, you’ve always taken any hard decisions for him, and now he’s gone, Violet! Gone!”

Violet had wandered around London for days after that. She showed Sherlock’s picture around, went to the most ill-famed places in the city, and she’d found nothing.

Mycroft was pulling every connection he had in his new job trying to locate his brother, but it was to no use. It was like Sherlock had disappeared from this Earth.

Greg, her lovely soon-to-be son-in-law, was keeping an eye on all the unidentified bodies at the morgue, while Siger sat outside their house every day, waiting.

But Sherlock wasn’t there, and Violet was starting to fear she’d never see her son again. It had been seven months, after all.

Her composure was crumbling. She was going to snap.

 

* * *

 

A washing machine. A fucking brand new washing machine.

John crossed his arms and stared at the shiny thing, so out of place in his shabby living room.

“The fuck is that?” Harry asked, pausing beside John on her way out.

“That, Harriet, is a washing machine.”

She snorted, punching him on the shoulder. “I can see that, you idiot. I mean, how the fuck did we afford it?”

John sighed, and Harry turned to him with a smirk. “You stole it?”

“Oh for fuck’s sakes, no. No Harry, I did not steal a sodding washing machine.”

“Then how come is it in our living room?”

John shuffled on his feet. “It’s a, erm, a gift,” he finally said, and Harry’s eyebrows shot up.

“A what?”

John scrubbed a hand over his face. “The guy I was with yesterday, he… I don’t know, don’t ask, please.”

Harry threw her head back and laughed. “You must be a really good shag if that posh bloke is now willing to be your sugar daddy.”

“He’s not-” John stopped, feeling immensely tired. God did he need a break.

“Where are you going?” He asked eventually, more than willing to change the subject.

Harry took a bite from the yellow apple she was holding and smiled.

“Not telling you.”

“Harry.”

She rolled her eyes. “Much as you like to believe it, you’re not actually my father.”

John smiled bitterly. “Thank God, he looks like a bit of an asshole.”

They both laughed, but it was a sad thing. In sync, they turned to look at the man passed out on the couch. He was snoring loudly, his mouth hanging open, and Rosie was having fun throwing nuts in it. Beside her, Casper was watching her with a block notes in his hands, keeping track of how many nuts she managed to land in the man’s cavity.

“Seriously though, where are you going?” John asked softly, and Harry got up on her tiptoes to place a kiss on his cheek.

“You won’t like it,” she replied, walking towards the door.

“Just give me an address where we can come collect your body.”

Harry laughed and threw the door open, then she paused in the door frame.

“To Clara Crenevich’s house,” she said hurriedly, before disappearing.

John almost ran after her. Not Clara Crenevich again, for God’s sakes.

She was the epitome of a bad girl, all cigarettes and drugs and easy sex and dangerous brothers, two of which were in for armed robbery, a third in juvie for having accidentally killed a guy during a fight.

And if all that wasn’t enough, Clara just wouldn’t admit she was gay, and considered Harry her fuck buddy, making his sister suffer terribly. More than once John had found Harry drunk on the kitchen floor, crying over the last nasty comment that Clara had thrown at her.

John was worried. Out of the seven of them, Harry was the one who had inherited their parents’ addictive personality. She was prone to latch onto the bottle and not let go, and John knew for a fact that the year before, when he had allowed her to go with Irene to sell weed throughout the neighbourhood (they had been particularly short on money in that period), Harry had smuggled some of the pot for herself and smoked it. When John had found out, he was horrified. It was one thing to have Harry help Irene sell some weed to the youngest users, it was another to discover that your fourteen year-old sister was smoking stolen marijuana in her bedroom while you were at work. He had felt guilty. Terribly so. If they hadn’t been so broke, if John had managed to get a fourth job, if they’d lived in a different neighbourhood, if if if…

John shut that train of thought and shook his head. It was useless to dwell on what had happened the year before.

But he was so goddamn worried. So very, _very_ worried. She was only fifteen, and God knew how much it hurt having your heart broken at that age.

“The fuck?” Susan asked, closing the door behind her.

She pointed at the washing machine. “Did you steal that thing?”

“Oh for- For the last time, I did _not_ steal a bloody washing machine!”

Susan stared at him unimpressed, walking up to him and stopping by his side, crossing her arms and staring at the thing.

“Chill though,” she eventually said, and John let out a calming, deep breath.

“Everything alright?” He asked, trying to divert Susan's attention from the washing machine. That was a matter _he_ would have to think about. On his own.

“Mmh mmh” Susan nodded absent-mindedly. Then she jerked her gaze away from the machine.

“Oh, before I forget,” she said, rummaging through her old backpack, that had once been John's, when he still went to school.

She took out three banknotes and handed them to John.

“I got twenty quid today tutoring the lesser minds,” she said with a grin, and John accepted the money with a smile.

God he hated this. He wanted his three jobs to be enough to support his family, he wanted his siblings to enjoy their childhood and teenage years, and instead he was forced to watch them juggling study and work, all to give everything they earned to the family fund. He hated this.

“Good job, love,” he said, placing his hand on her shoulder.

They smiled sadly at each other for a few moments, then Susan took a deep breath and looked in Rosie's direction.

“The hell's she doing anyway.”

“She's trying to choke Joe with nuts.”

“God, no. We'll inherit all his debts.”

John laughed, and Susan shook her head in mock disapproval.

“Shit, I need to get ready,” she muttered suddenly, glancing at the clock hanging on the wall.

John furrowed his brow in a silent question.

Susan grinned, “I have a date with Cody Crenevich.”

Oh for heaven's sakes. Both his sisters tangled up with a fucking Crenevich. Although Cody wasn't a bad sort. Had a bit of a problem with illegal street fights, but John had seen (and done) worse.

“While you're at it, ask him to keep his sister away from _our_ sister.”

Susan sighed sadly, “No one can keep Clara and Harry apart.”

Unfortunately, John had to agree. In some twisted way, the two loved each other.

Susan walked up to Rosie and Casper and kissed them on their head, ignoring Joe completely, and ran upstairs.

John turned his attention to the washing machine.

He did not want it.

He had tried to make the delivery men take it back, but they had apparently been bribed into forcing their way into John's house without listening to his protests. At the time, John had been quite busy juggling Jane on one hip and feeding her while Gabe hanged from one of his legs, and was thus unable to deck the three men and tell them to fuck off.

He had watched furious as they assembled the washing machine, even ignoring Jane's wails. Perhaps they'd have left, upon hearing the baby cry for twenty minutes straight. They didn't.

After they had finished their job, one of the men approached John and handed him a note: 

 

 

> I expect the clothing items I forgot here last night to be returned clean as new. I'll come collect them later.
> 
> -WS

 

'Clothing items'. The jerk meant his ripped fancy trousers and the pair of pants John had found hanging from a door angle. He had no idea how they had landed there.

Still, he did not want the sodding thing.

“What in the bloody hell is that?” Janine exclaimed, making her way into the living room like that was her house.

“Has any if you ever seen a washing machine?!” John snapped.

Janine looked at him with a confused expression, “Calm your tits, man.”

“Sorry just... Okay, what would you do if a guy you just met gave you a washing machine?”

Janine's eyes shot open.

“William? The posh bloke from last night?”

“He paid some delivery men to assemble this bloody thing in my living room and ignore my protests.”

Janine laughed and John glared at her. So much for asking for her advice.

“I'm sorry but, hell that's some dedication. What do you plan to do?”

“What do you mean?”

Janine huffed, “I _mean_ , are you going to be the usual proud, stubborn bull or are you going to use this beauty? ”

John hadn't considered this. Using it? Using it would be admitting defeat. That he needed the thing.

He _did_ , technically. He didn't want other people to provide for him though. He could have bought a new washing machine in six months or so.

He looked down at the twenty pounds Susan had given him earlier. He sighed, defeated.

“Help me do the washing up, come on.”

Janine smiled knowingly at him but he ignored her. He had only a few minutes before Gabe or Jane (or worse, both) woke up from their afternoon nap.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock walked up to the Watsons’ house and took a deep breath. The chilly air of the October night made him shiver, and goosebumps erupted on his neck and forearm.

He lifted his hand and knocked.

Inside, he could hear quarrelling.

“I'll take it,” a man's voice slurred, his voice trembling slightly.

“Leave it, Joe. No one ever comes looking for you,” John's voice snapped, and Sherlock's heart jumped in his throat just upon hearing it. He hadn't realised he'd missed John so much.

“Unless you count creditors, and God knows how fast you run when they come.”

Hurried steps followed the voices, and the door was thrown open.

Inside, John froze, while his father undulated beside him. The man couldn't seem to be able to stand still. Typical tics of a seasoned drinker and drug user.

“Who the f-fuck are you, mmh?” The man asked, taking a wobbly step in Sherlock's general direction.

John crossed his arms and said nothing. God, why was he even more beautiful than Sherlock remembered?

He cleared his throat, “I'm William, sir.” He took a step forward and shook the man's hand, while John scoffed. Probably at the use of the word 'sir' in referring to his father.

“You should go,” John said, icily.

Sherlock did not let it deter him.

“I believe you have something of mine.”

John rolled his eyes and beckoned him in. Joe followed them inside, and Sherlock was appalled to discover that the inside of the house wasn't warmer than the outside.

In the living room he could see the washing machine he had bought, already put to good use, judging by the absence of dirty clothes all around the house.

“Here,” John hissed, “Your fucking trousers and pants. It's been a pleasure, bye.”

Joe suddenly looked interested in the exchange, “New boyfriend, John? You still playing for b-both teams, ah? Oh to be your age again! Even this ol' man 'ere used to get a shag from a bloke from time to time. Nothing like a mutual blowj-”

“ _Joe_!” John yelled.

“Gabe and Rosie and Casper and Jane are right _there_!” He stabbed his finger in the kitchen direction, and Sherlock looked at where John was pointing.

Around the small table, the four kids were eating. Casper was feeding Jane, while Gabe and Rosie were staring with curious eyes at the scene in the living room.

Joe brought his hands up, shaking his head, “Alreight, alreight, Joe's out.”

The man grabbed a jacket from a hook (and Sherlock suspected it wasn't even his) and left from the front door.

John sighed. Then he turned and went back to the kitchen.

“Goodbye, William,” he said, grabbing a wet towel and using it to clean the kitchen counter, his back still turned to Sherlock.

Rosie was looking at him with a shy smile, and she waved at him. Sherlock waved back and her smile grew wider.

“John?” She chirped, “William is very thin.”

John stilled his movements and looked at her.

“I think you should feed him.”

Sherlock let out a laugh, and John turned to glare at him.

“Sorry Rosie, but I'm afraid William really needs to-”

“I'm actually quite famished, if I say so myself,” Sherlock interrupted him, and made his way into the kitchen, sitting down beside Gabe.

Rosie jumped up and took a plate out of a drawer (why were there plates in drawers, Sherlock wondered), promptly shoving half of her own pasta on it, and handing the dish to Sherlock. He accepted it with a thank you, and she sat down grinning madly.

In front of him, Casper was looking at him suspiciously, while Jane completely ignored him. She was a chubby baby, deep blue eyes and sparse blond hair, a typical Watson.

“Eat your pasta, Gabe,” John scolded softly, approaching the table. Sherlock turned and looked at Gabe, who was gazing up at him with his huge, questioning green/grey eyes.

“Hello,” Sherlock said, amused.

“Who are you?” The child asked, and Sherlock smiled involuntarily at Gabe's infant voice, at his care in pronouncing every syllable.

“I'm William,” he said, cringing internally for having to lie to this family. Necessary evil.

“Why are you here?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but John beat him to it.

“Bloody good question,” he muttered, leaning over Gabe and dipping the child's fork in the dish.

“C'mon monkey, eat up,” John said, and Gabe obediently opened his mouth and ate the forkful of offered pasta.

“You go on,” John said softly, and Gabe nodded, taking the fork in his hand and eating with gusto.

Sherlock smiled at the child, and didn't notice John was staring at him until it was too late to hide his idiotic grin.

“Can I talk to you in private?” John gritted out, just seconds later.

Rosie snickered in her plate.

“Uuh, John and William, sitting in the tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” She sing-songed.

John shook his head at her, while Sherlock tried not to laugh, following John outside the kitchen and into the living room, then upstairs.

Suddenly, John grabbed him and pushed him against a wall.

“I don't need the washing machine.”

Sherlock was too stunned (and let's be honest, more than a bit aroused) to answer, so he gaped at him. He could feel John's warmth irradiating from his body, his fingers curled in the lapels of his thick wool coat.

“Go do your charity somewhere else.”

 _And here we go again with the charity_ , Sherlock thought bitterly.

“I'm not a very charitable guy.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

Sherlock stared down into John's eyes, questioning and open and suspicious. He really couldn't believe Sherlock was doing it without expecting anything back.

Sherlock swallowed hard and decided to go for the truth.

“I thought you needed it and I... I wanted an excuse to see you again.”

John's grip softened on the fabric, and he looked less angry.

“Why?”

Sherlock frowned, “Why what?”

“Why would you want to see me again?”

John looked so perplexed, like he had no idea what Sherlock might see in him. Sherlock took a deep breath and spoke earnestly.

“Because you’re the most intriguing person that I met in months. You… I’d like to get to know you.”

John sighed, “Listen I, ah, appreciate? Yes, I appreciate the feeling but I, uhm, I think we're too different to erm, date? Is that what you want?”

Sherlock blinked at him, “What do you mean too different?”

John let go of Sherlock's coat, and rubbed a hand behind his neck.

“It's...” John groaned in annoyance, then waved his hands around up and down Sherlock’s body.

“I mean, look at you! With, with your _coat_ -”

“What's wrong with my coat?”

“-and, and your _jeans_ , and your accent-”

“I do not have an _accent_ ,” Sherlock sputtered, but John rattled on.

“-and your washing machine and your fancy car!”

Sherlock threw his hands in the air.

“I stole that car!” He yelled, and John froze.

They stared at each other, panting, stilled in the moment.

“Y-you what?”

 _Shiiiiit_.

He shouldn't have said that. What if John turned him in?

Wait. Nah. John had shrugged it off the night before when Sherlock had sort of implied he had troubles with the law.

 _In for a penny, in for a pound_ , Sherlock thought, and took a deep breath.

“I stole that car. That is literally the only way I make my money.”

“You bought me a washing machine with stolen money?” John hissed.

“Of course not!”

“Then with what money?”

“I bought it with money illegally earned through the selling of stolen _goods_ , do keep up.”

There was a split moment in which Sherlock feared John was going to punch him. But John Watson, marveling John Watson, threw his head back and laughed.

Sherlock stared at him in amazement. Even the night before, John had always had the _wrong_ reaction to Sherlock. It was mesmerizing, fascinating, addicting. Sherlock wanted to keep studying John Watson forever. He was a mystery. An endless, beautiful mystery.

“Want to finish that pasta?” John asked with a smile, peering up at Sherlock through his lashes.

Something that Sherlock had said must have made John change his mind about him. Sherlock considered all the facts.

  * Fact 1. John Watson was proud. Sherlock hadn't missed how much his offer of help had stung John the night before.

  * Fact 2. John was stubborn. It was clear that he didn't want to use the washing machine, and the delivery men had told him how much of a fuss John had made.

  * Fact 3. John was used to be seen as the role model and the responsible one of the family.




Like puzzle pieces, it all came together.

John Watson was afraid.

He feared inequality. He feared that he could have come to depend on Sherlock, if he'd let him buy things. He feared that Sherlock wouldn't have understood, not really, because he didn't have John's dysfunctional family and background.

Sherlock had sort of soothed those fears.

He'd told him he'd bought the washing machine because he wanted to see John again, and not because he pitied him. He'd told John that he made his money by selling stolen cars, and John had apparently felt relieved in knowing that Sherlock came from a similar background.

Sherlock froze. _Fuck_.

What if things got serious between him and John? How could he tell him he was Sherlock fucking Holmes, that he had lied about his name and that he came from one of the wealthiest families in Sussex?

Simple, he couldn't. It'd have ruined everything.

He would never tell him, Sherlock thought.

John took his hand in his, interlacing their fingers, reminiscent of the night before, when they had exited the club together.

 _No_ , Sherlock vowed, _I'll never tell him_.

 

* * *

 

“ - and then I was like, 'mmh, the bathroom's that way, ma'am',” Janine said, and everyone laughed, Sherlock even spilling some of his beer on the couch.

It was two in the morning, and Sherlock was still in John Watson’s house. It looked like he was going to spend the night there. Perfect.

After eating dinner with the younger Watsons, Harry and Susan had come back and helped John put everyone to bed.

Rosie had insisted it was Sherlock to tuck her in, and Sherlock had felt oddly touched.

“Good night, Will,” she'd said, and Sherlock had kissed her forehead and handed her her stuffed toy. Then he had turned and picked up Gabe’s bee, placing it beside the child, who was already asleep beside Rosie. John had been right beside him, rocking Jane back and forth, and had shot him a weird look.

Then Harry and Susan had gone in the bedroom they shared with Casper, who was playing a video game under the covers, and brought with them a can of beer and a slice of pizza they had found in the fridge.

Sherlock had helped John tidy the kitchen, then they had snuggled on the sofa, and talked.

(“A normal person would have already run away,” John whispered, tracing Sherlock’s cheekbone with feather-light fingers. “I guess I’m not normal, then,” Sherlock replied with a smirk. John smacked his arm. “You stealing my lines?”)

Suddenly John had grabbed Sherlock and pushed him down on his back to give him a pretty damn fine snog. They were already on the verge to finish what they had interrupted the night before, when Janine and Irene had barged into the house with sixteen cans of beer and a bottle of vodka.

“It's midnight! It's my birthday, bitches!” Janine had yelled, throwing a can at John.

And that was how now Sherlock was pleasantly tipsy on John Watson's couch, and said man was sitting right beside him, a hand placed firmly on his thigh, a soothing and warm presence.

Irene and Janine kept telling hilarious stories, sharing a joint between them.

“So, William,” Irene started, trying to sit up straighter and failing miserably, losing her balance and ending up with her elbows on the coffee table in front of the armchair she was perched on.

“Careful, love,” Janine called, giggling as she helped her girlfriend back up.

“As I was saying,” Irene continued as if nothing had happened, and Sherlock and John tried to stifle their laugh.

“William, what is it that you do? Got a nice car out there, wouldn't mind one for me.”

Sherlock sobered up and used his usual cover up story.

“I'm a car salesman.”

John laughed, “He means he steals cars and _then_ sells them.”

Irene and Janine gaped at him.

“Really?” Irene asked.

Sherlock inwardly cursed John. What the hell did he think he was doing?

“Oh c'mon don't do that face,” John said, smiling up at Sherlock, “It's pretty much a thing everyone here has done once or twice.”

Janine nodded, taking a swig from her beer.

“A couple of years ago I stole a beautiful Ferrari and had a ride on it. Such fun.”

“I remember,” Irene purred, lacing her fingers with Janine's and leaning down for a kiss.

“Oi, oi PDA at minimum, thanks,” John said, and brought up his hand to cover his eyes, missing of at least five centimetres. Maybe he was drunker than he looked, Sherlock thought, smiling at him.

Janine and Irene giggled, and separated with a sigh.

Irene brought the joint to her lips, and took a deep drag.

“Want some?” She asked Sherlock, blowing out the smoke and handing it to him. He nodded and took it.

“Thanks,” he said, sucking on the thin paper and letting the smoke fill his lungs. He tilted the joint in John's direction, but he shook his head, a weird look in his eye. Sherlock shrugged and handed the joint back to Irene, who took another drag before passing it to Janine.

“And what do you do?” Sherlock asked, because for the love of him, he couldn't deduce it. Janine was clearly some sort of nurse, while Irene sold marijuana, but they obviously did something else. And Sherlock couldn't understand what.

“I'm a caregiver at a nurse house,” Janine answered, “While Irene's a-”

“He already knows that,” Irene interrupted her, fixing Sherlock with her gaze, suddenly sharp and focused. “Don't you, Will?”

Sherlock smirked. “Yes,” he simply replied.

Both Janine and John looked between the two in confusion.

“You know dear,” Irene said, turning to her girlfriend with a predatory smile, “what William here really wants to know, is our second job.”

Janine's mouth shaped a pink 'o', and John choked on his beer.

“We film live porn videos and get paid online by people who can ask us to do something,” Janine replied simply.

Sherlock couldn't help it. He laughed.

“What are you laughing about? We're hella paid ya know,” Janine said, and Irene nodded.

“I used to do it on my own, before I met Janine. Then we decided to do it together and wow, you wouldn't believe how many people pay just asking for a snog.”

“Oh trust me, I believe you,” Sherlock replied amused, and John laughed.

Janine slammed her can on the floor, and said, “This is all fun and all but where the _fuck_ is my gift.”

John let out a laugh and got up, leaving Sherlock's side feeling cold.

“Thought you'd never ask,” John joked, coming back into the leaving room with an envelope.

He threw it at Janine, missing her completely. He really was dizzy.

“Your aim is shit,” Janine complained, picking up the envelope. John shrugged and slumped back on the couch, placing his hand on Sherlock’s thigh once again. Sherlock almost self-combust.

Suddenly, Janine let out a squeal, and threw herself at John.

“Thank you!” She screamed, peppering John's face in kisses.

“Stop,” John muttered, but he was laughing.

“What did he get you?” Irene asked, and Janine got up, waving the envelope around.

John took Sherlock's hand in his, entwining their fingers, and turned his head to kiss his cheek.

It was completely random, and it left Sherlock's mind blank.

“Free bar for a month at the Barbarian!” Janine's high thrill made Sherlock come back to reality.

“The Barbarian?” He asked.

“My favourite club!” Janine replied, grinning like an idiot at the paper in her hands.

“How did you get a _month_ of free bar?” Sherlock asked turning his head to John.

“I work there,” John said, “I talked to the owner and he agreed. Everyone there knows Janine anyway.”

“Where he goes, I go!” Janine chirped, ruffling John's hair.

Then Irene made a joke about having to deal with a drunk Janine on a regular basis, John had laughed, and Sherlock wondered how could he have ever called any evening 'fun' before this one.

 

* * *

 

At three, Irene and Janine finally left, after having helped Sherlock and John throw away all the used cans and tidy up the living room.

“Alone again,” John whispered in Sherlock's ear, his arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders.

“Finally,” Sherlock growled, and they met for a fierce kiss.

John broke away to smile up at Sherlock, then took his hand and led him upstairs and into his room.

This time they finally did manage to get to the end, without any annoying cop coming knocking on their door or any loud girl bursting in.

It was slow. Sherlock was actually astonished by how _slow_ it had been. They were both drunk, therefore Sherlock had expected a rush business, but it wasn’t.

They spent endless moments focusing on caresses and languid kisses, and dedicated long minutes to undressing each other. John took his time in preparing Sherlock, and once he was in, he moved his hips unhurriedly, leisurely.

Once they were finished, breathing hard against each other’s skin, Sherlock was wrecked.

“You can sleep here if you want,” John murmured against his neck, after he’d come back from the bathroom and cleaned them up.

Sherlock took a deep breath, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“I, uhm, thanks,” he choked out, in a weird high-pitched voice.

“You still owe me, though,” John murmured sleepily, wrapping his arms around Sherlock, spooning him.

“Mmh?” Sherlock asked, because anything with more than one syllable was unthinkable at the moment.

“My rugby shorts, dickhead. I need them.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, and chuckled.

“I kinda hoped you wouldn’t notice I kept them.”

John huffed, holding Sherlock closer. “Bring them back tomorrow.”

Sherlock held his breath. If that wasn’t John asking him to come over again, Sherlock didn’t know what was.

 

* * *

 

“Wut tim’ is it?” Sherlock slurred, burrowing his face in the warm, cosy pillow.

“Half past five,” John replied, sounding wide awake. Sherlock heard him move around the room and open a drawer.

“You do realise we only slept, like, two hours? Don’t you have a hangover or something?”

John chuckled. “Nope,” he replied.

Sherlock lifted his head to look for the man. He was wearing a loose, old t-shirt and a pair of gym shorts. Around his neck were dangling a pair of small headphones, that looked like they came straight from the 90’s.

“The fuck?”

John smiled at him, and threw him a block notes with a number scribbled on it.

“I’m going out for my morning run. That’s my number. Call me if one of my siblings needs anything, I’ll be right back. They shouldn’t be up for at least a couple of hours, but still,” he shrugged, “Emergencies.”

Sherlock stared at him.

“Are you entrusting me the supervision of your siblings?”

John twisted his mouth. “No, Harry and Susan usually take care of them while I’m out. But you’re here so,” he shrugged again, “Emergencies.”

Sherlock nodded, immediatly saving the number on his phone as ‘John’.

When he looked up from the screen, John was right there at the edge of the bed. Sherlock frowned up at him and John smiled, before bending down to peck him on the lips.

“See you later,” he whispered, then he was out of the room, leaving Sherlock alone to deal with his imminent death for cardiac arrest.

 

He did try to get back to sleep after that (he was bloody knackered), but he only managed a few minutes of blessed slumber, before a tiny hand shook him awake.

He opened his eyes and found Gabe kneeling on the mattress in front of his face.

“Hey, Gabe,” he said tiredly, trying to focus on his worried face.

“Where’th John?” Gabe was on the verge of tears, and Sherlock, despite the panic, couldn’t help but find his lisp adorable.

“He went running.”

“Rwahnning?”

Sherlock nodded, and Gabe looked utterly terrified.

“Rwahnning from the monstherz?” He asked with a tiny, conspiratorial voice.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh.

“No, of course not. He’s running because he likes it.”

Gabe nodded, as if he understood that, but his eyes were still scared.

“Have you dreamt about the monsters?” Sherlock asked him.

Gabe’s eyes widened.

“How did you know?”

Sherlock smiled. “I have magical powers,” he whispered.

Gabe blinked at him. “Rweally?” He questioned in wonder.

Sherlock nodded seriously. “Oh yes, I can make all the ugly monsters run away.”

Gabe looked at him skeptically.

“I can,” Sherlock exclaimed, pretending to be offended.

“ ‘kay,” Gabe eventually said, and snuggled up in front of Sherlock, taking his hand and wrapping it around himself, actively hugging Sherlock’s arm.

“Keep the monstherz away, pwease?” He asked, turning his head to look at Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock froze. Was this kid trusting him with his bad dreams? What if he had one while sleeping beside him? What if he started crying, and John came back, and never wanted to see Sherlock again?

But Gabe’s eyes were so imploring, that Sherlock couldn’t do anything else but smile and murmur, “Of course I will.”

 

* * *

 

John came back from his run and slumped on the couch, sweaty and breathless. It was empty. Joe must have slept out again.

Quiet. The house was quiet. No one was already up, then. He sighed in relief.

He could take a shower before cooking breakfast for everyone. Sweet.

He went to the bathroom downstairs, and let the warm water wash away all the sweat and the cold of the Autumn morning. When he was done, he scrubbed a towel across his hair, and dressed up with just a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. He’d need to change into his uniform just after breakfast anyway.

He stepped out the bathroom and stilled. Still no noises.

Gabe usually woke up early. Weird.

He climbed the stairs and walked up to his bedroom, to wake up William and ask him what he wanted for breakfast. Not that he had much of a choice - pancakes and coffee or pancakes and orange juice.

He opened the door, and froze in the door frame.

On the bed, Gabe was sleeping like the dead, and William had his arm wrapped around him. The image took John’s breath away. He did not know why, and frankly, he didn’t care to know.

Christ, William was driving him nuts. He had met him two days before, and John was already head over heels for him. That was not good.

That was _so_ not good.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know your thoughts in the comments! I so love reading them, it's always such a kick for my confidence! :)


	3. Unpredictability

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter drove me _insane_! Literally. I'm so happy to finally post it, even though I'm still very unsure about it. 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

John listened to the steady rise and fall of his feet on the concrete.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

The rhythm was relaxing, hypnotic, and John loved it immensely. He loved running. Ever since he was a kid, he had discovered that physical exertion was the perfect let out of his burning emotions. 

One, two, three. One, two, three.

John had always found in running his private moment in which he could _think_. Every day, John had to hurry to work, take care of the kids, pay the bills, and it was all a blur of mechanic actions and fast decisions. When he ran, he felt _free_. He focused on his body, on the rhythmic sound of his shoes hitting the hard soil. Sometimes, thoughts bubbled up, uncalled for, memories and sudden revelations.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

A sidewalk on his right. John closed his eyes, forcing the painful memories out of his mind. But they came like a slap on the face anyway.

He remembered when he was six, and they lived in a car, he, Joe, Susan and Harry. He remembered when Joe, desperate for a fix, had left the three of them on that sidewalk and driven away. He remembered his run to the nearest hospital, one-year-old Harry’s forehead burning like a fire, two-year-old Susan crying as she gripped onto his hand. He remembered Joe finding them on that same sidewalk five days later, and searching John’s pockets for money.

John’s pace quickened, old anger fuelling his aching muscles. 

One, two, three. One, two, three.

He turned into a secondary street, the sound of his breathing deafening. The sidewalk is forgotten, buried in his memory once again.

A date on a clock outside a bar. 3rd November, 06:29am.

It’s a month today. A month since William had swooped into his life, running after that kid and showing up to his house the next day with a washing machine. A month. A fucking _month_. It was supposed to be a one-night stand, for heaven’s sakes. It was getting serious. William had started to spend almost every night at John’s, and he had even taken care of Gabe for a week when his school was closed. He cooked breakfast while John was out running, he prepared Jane and Gabe while John ate. In the afternoon he sometimes helped Rosie, Casper and Harry with their homework. He and Susan spent whole evenings discussing things John would never comprehend in a million years, laughing quietly as they watched YouTube videos in which Einstein’s theory about gravity was explained “dreadfully”.

Rosie adored William. So did Gabe. The three of them were thick as thieves, spending afternoons experimenting in the kitchen, Gabe diligently not touching anything William forbade him, Rosie building explosive science fair projects.

John could barely imagine his life without William now. Coming home from work and not finding Will there, he and Casper grinning at him from the couch as they played videogames together (“William, you can’t possibly buy us a TV and fucking Wii!” John had yelled when the man in question had showed up with a flat screen under one arm and an armful of videogames and an old Wii console under the other. “It’s for me,” Will had explained, so unconvincing that John had rolled his eyes. Will had smirked and bent down for a kiss. “Well, I spend most of my time here now, don’t I? It’s only fair I have a TV and my Wii.”). John imagined not hearing his condescending tone as Will made his ‘deductions’ about everything John or the kids had done that day. He thought of going to bed at night, knackered from the day just spent, and being alone, no annoying car-stealer curled up around him like a bloody octopus.

He couldn’t envision it. And that scared him. It scared the hell out of him. The kids now knew Will, hell, _Joe_ knew him, and they all grew fond of him. Joe even listened to him sometimes, when Will told him to get the hell out or diverted his attention from stealing a room or a clean pair of trousers. Irene and Janine _adored_ him. Especially in Irene, it seemed like Will had found a real friend.

It was all a big mess. John felt like he couldn’t breathe.

His steps faltered, and he almost fell face down on the ground.

He shook his head, and struggled to get his pace back.

One, two… three. One, two, three.

He liked William. _A lot_. But John had never been in a relationship, just quick flings with some girls or boys in high school, and since Margaret left for the last time, dumping a crying one-month-old Jane on him, he had only let himself experience meaningless one-night stands, too busy to even _think_ about a relationship.

But apparently, he and William were in one. A long term one, judging by the way Will seemed to have carved a space into all their lives, and for the love of God, John didn’t know why the idea sat so badly with him.

He’d figure it out. One step a time. Because the solutions were two; either he let this _thing_ go on, or he left William. Just the thought made him sick. Leave William? Never in a million years. The guy was so clever and odd and incredible and _amazing_ , and a damn sex wizard. There was no way John was burning his bridges with him.

And yet.

And yet just thinking it had been a month had John pausing in his run, sitting down on the concrete, struggling to breathe.

Shit.

 

* * *

 

Boredom had always been Sherlock’s greatest enemy. “Bored to tears” was the expression he often used to describe to his family how he felt. When he was a kid, boredom had been easy to overcome; Mycroft was always there to teach him something, Redbeard always invented a new game, letting Sherlock’s mind run loose, imagining pirate ships and treasures on lonely islands. But then Mycroft had left, and so had Redbeard. And he was alone with his thoughts and his parents and stupid school and teachers and the frustrating, maddening _dullness_ of it all.

In uni he met a guy. Dark and tall and handsome, with a blinding smile and clever eyes. His name was Victor, and Sherlock had immediately been fascinated. Victor wasn’t boring. Not at all. And Victor had the solution to abide the stagnation in Sherlock’s mind, that was literally driving him up the wall.

Cocaine. 

It worked. For a while. At least until bloody Mycroft found out, told his parents, who in return cut his trust fund. With no more money to offer, Victor had turned away in search of “different affiliations”, that was what he had said. Damn bastard. Sherlock had fled the place, after the umpteenth sneer from Victor and his friends.

“You’re such a spoilt brat,” Victor had laughed with cold, twisted amusement, “not used to not getting what you want, uh? Go cry to mum and daddy, and stop boring us.” Victor’s friends had cackled, and Sherlock had felt humiliation wash all over him, and had left the room in fury, not even bothering to correct the tosser’s double negative.

He had escaped that night. He had stolen the car of a particularly obnoxious professor in order to accomplish so, and then sold it. He discovered it was remunerative. He got good. Got a deal with a second-hand car seller named Angelo. One car a week, five grand a month. It was more than enough. It wasn’t fair, the cars Sherlock stole were worth about twenty times what he earned, but he wasn’t doing it for the money. He was just trying to pay the rent of a little flat in Montague Street, just beside the British Museum.

He found a nice enough dealer. A smart guy, Marcus was his street name, who sold Sherlock uncut drugs of rare quality, at a fair price.

It wasn’t a good life; but it was less boring than the one he had led in the first nineteen years of his life.

At night he went clubbing, sometimes. It was a good way to be surrounded by stimuli, and the music pumped in his ears relentlessly, drowning his screaming thoughts. And if he found a shag, even better. He sought release, and sex was the second best way to accomplish that.

Then he had met John Watson, and everything had changed.

In the month since he had started spending time with the Watsons, Sherlock had learnt a lot about the family. Or better, he had _tried_ to. The seven of them were so bloody _impossible_.

For his whole life, Sherlock had never had any troubles reading people’s lives on their faces. They were easy, predictable, boring. They all obeyed to the same rules, played the same games, were trapped in the same goddamn schemes. Sherlock despised the monotony of it all.

But the Watsons were different. They were completely unpredictable, utter chaos. It was always hard for Sherlock to deduce them thoroughly, there was always some variable that he couldn’t calculate.

It was magnificent. Refreshing. A balm to his racing mind.

Better than the drugs. (Almost.)

That was why he spent as much time with them as he could, staying over many nights, just the thought of his tiny, lonely flat making him sick. If it weren’t for his one-car-a-week deal (and the craving need for cocaine from time to time), he’d barely have left the house. He was there even when John was out. So far, this was the information Sherlock had acquired about the Watson clan.

 

  1. _Susan Watson was extremely clever. And versatile._



**4 th October**, around 9:00pm

John opened the door and frowned up at him quizzically.

“Your rugby shorts,” Sherlock offered, unsure as to why John was staring at him like that.

“I uhm…” John twisted his mouth, looking at the fabric as if it was an unsolvable puzzle.

“This morning you said you wanted them back, so…”

John nodded absent-mindedly, “Yeah.”

He took the proffered shorts and didn’t move again. Sherlock really couldn’t fathom what the _hell_ was going on.

“Is everything alright?” Sherlock asked, cold dread settling in his stomach. Maybe John was already trying to  get rid of him?

John lifted his head and in his eyes Sherlock read _something_. He didn’t like it.

“Listen, I erm, I have work to do, and see you later maybe.”

“Stop,” Sherlock said, taking one step closer to the man, crowding him. He looked down and saw blood on John’s hands, on his clothes.

“What happened?” He asked urgently, taking John’s bloody hands in his.

John’s features hardened and Sherlock sidestepped him, not wanting to hear John’s usual ‘not your business’ and  ‘I don’t need anyone’s help’ bullshit. 

“Wait!” John yelled, but Sherlock was already inside, and the sight that awaited him in the living room made his blood run cold.

On the couch,  Harry was nursing her apparently broken nose, while Susan was actively, fucking _suturing_ a very deep and scary wound on her sister’s thigh.

“Oh, hello Will,” Harry said with a suffering grin, while Susan kept her eyes on her sister’s leg.

“What the bloody hell happened?” Sherlock almost screamed.

John ignored him, slumping down on the sofa beside Harry.

“Care to explain, miss?” He said in mock politeness, and Harry rolled her eyes, before flinching for the sting of a stitch.

“Sorry,” Susan said, biting down on her lower lip.

“It’s okay,” Harry replied with a smile in her sister’s direction, before turning to look at Sherlock.

“Long story short: we went to Mrs. Hudson’s house – she makes the _best_ scones, you know, and _someone_ ,” and she wriggled her eyebrows in Susan’s direction, who huffed, “decided to give her son a _hand_ – if you know what I mean, with his ‘homework’. And guess what happened when his father came back home and discovered his son was having fun with a Watson? We escaped from a window but I tore my bloody leg apart on a shred glass. Oh, and destroyed my nose in the tumble.”

“We need to take you to the A&E,” Sherlock said urgently, his heart beating fast in his chest. Harry’s wound really did seem nasty, and she had lost so much blood, judging by the alarming amount of soaked tissues all over the floor.

John let out a bitter laugh.

“Where the hell do you come from?” He asked.

“It looks like a stab wound,” Susan murmured, as if that explained everything.

“So?” Sherlock was speechless, and worried to death. They needed to get Harry to the nearest A&E, _what were they doing for fuck’s sakes?_ Perhaps they thought they’d end up in a waiting room for hours? Sherlock remembered that his mother used to take him there for the most superficial chemical burns, and they always had to wait ages for a doctor. But considering that Harry had a broken nose and a fucking _gash_ in her leg (that Sherlock considered life threatening), they probably wouldn’t even have to wait long before someone came and sought them.

“ _So_ , genius,” John hissed glaring at him, “I don’t know where the fuck you have lived until now, but you just don’t go to the nearest A&E with a smile saying, ‘Hello, I’m from the council estate and this looks like a stab wound, but actually it isn’t. Can you help us?’ ”

Sherlock felt suddenly sick. He hadn’t thought of it. And yet it was obvious, and it happened all the time in places like this. Hospitals would be full all the time, if they accepted all the kids form council estates like John's that had been stabbed or shot. Too many of them. Sherlock felt so bloody _sick_. He felt like he could scream. Harry was fifteen and she was having her fucking thigh stitched up by her-

“Susan, how old are you?” Sherlock asked, with just an edge of panic.

“I’m sixteen,” she replied simply, and Sherlock could just _faint_.

“Oh don’t do that face,” John scolded, “If I didn’t think Susan could do this I would’ve never asked her. She’s good, look.”

John lifted the sleeve of his red t-shirt and showed Sherlock a neat scar on his left shoulder.

“Susan did it when she was fourteen,” he said proudly, smiling at his sister.

“Where did you learn?” Sherlock questioned, stunned. The scar looked like it had been made by a specialist.

“YouTube,” she answered with a shrug, finishing up Harry’s leg.

“Done,” she grinned, biting on the silky thread she had used to sew Harry’s injury.

She then took a piece of gauze and carefully placed it on her handiwork, and wrapped everything up in a clean dressing.

“Don’t move your leg too much, try not to wriggle in your sleep and we’ll check it tomorrow morning. You’ll be right as rain in a tick.”

“Thank you,” Harry said with a smile.

“Now lemme give a look at that nose,” Susan continued, reaching up to take Harry’s hand in hers and removing it from her face.

Sherlock stared at the three of them, John holding onto Harry’s hand as she hissed in pain, Susan inspecting her alarmingly violet nose with a worried gaze.

“It’s not broken, but you cracked the bone. It’s just a bad blow,” Susan eventually said, caressing her sister’s cheek. “I’m sorry I got you into this mess.”

Harry shrugged, “I will look bloody badass if I end up with a crooked nose, right?”

Both John and Susan chuckled, while Sherlock ogled the scene in mute awe.  

“John, can you help her to bed?” Susan asked, getting up from the floor. “I need to finish this guy’s paper by tomorrow or he won’t pay me.”

“Go ahead, love,” John said, helping Harry get up from the couch and leading her up the stairs. Halfway up he turned to face Sherlock. “Good night, Will,” he murmured, and disappeared. Sherlock recognized a dismissal when he heard one.

He glanced at Susan to wish her good night as well, and something caught his eye. The girl had rapidly washed her hands and was already engrossed in her reading on the kitchen counter, munching on a pencil. “What paper?” Sherlock asked her. She wasn’t writing a college paper for sure, judging by the books she was consulting.

She lifted her head. “I get paid by dumb students to write uni papers,” she explained matter-of-factly, and got back to work. Sherlock sat beside her. He glanced down at the books she was consulting. Suddenly, his eyes flew open.

“Is this an Analysis IV textbook?!”

She shrugged, “Yup.”

Christ, the girl was a _genius_. And she didn’t even care.

 

  1. _Jane Watson was probably born from the union of an angel and a unicorn, so quiet and peaceful she was._



**5 th October**, 08:13pm

Three fast raps on a wooden door.

Sherlock adjusted his grip on the two paper cups he was holding. From them, a warm steam came out steadily, delivering him the sweet aroma of freshly made coffee. He could hear John moving around the house, probably trying to get to him while holding Jane. All the other Watsons were at school at that hour.

John threw the door open and rolled his eyes. His blond hair was a mess, his grey hoodie stained with orange juice, the same shade of the liquid contained in Jane’s bottle. Said baby was beatifically anchored on John’s hips, her huge, dark blue eyes fixed on Sherlock with childlike curiosity.

“Of course it’s you again,” John sighed.

Sherlock grinned at him, undeterred. He knew John was pleased to see him. He could read it in the soft blush he could see creeping out from underneath John’s collar and the involuntary smile playing at the corner of his lips.

“When I went away yesterday night you were still upstairs with Harriet,” he shrugged, handing John a paper cup, “Want some?”

John accepted the coffee wordlessly. He wasn’t going to give Sherlock the satisfaction of a thank you. Sherlock kept smiling at him and John sighed.

“You didn’t have to.”

Sherlock brought the cup to his lips and took a sip. “I wanted to, though.”

The smile John gave him was weird, puzzled, but also somewhat fond.

“Come in,” John said, jostling Jane on his hip. The child giggled happily, waving her bottle in the air, effectively splashing John with more juice. John smiled at her, unbothered.

When inside, Sherlock noticed Joe sleeping on the floor, still fully dressed. John didn’t even glanced at him as he walked over his seemingly lifeless form.

“He dead?” Sherlock asked, walking beside the human lump.

“I wish,” John chuckled, placing Jane on the kitchen floor. “He’s just passed out. A new dealer of his – Joe thinks he’s buying ecstasy, but the guy works in the psychiatric ward, so.” He said this nonchalantly, an amused smile playing on his lips, much to Sherlock’s surprise. John turned and grabbed his grey uniform. Then he hesitated, staring down at Jane with a thoughtful look.

“Keep an eye on her while I change?” John asked, and promptly disappeared in the tiny bathroom that was right in the kitchen. Sherlock looked at the child sitting on the floor, so out of his depth it was painful. Sherlock knew children that age were a right pain in the arse. Not Jane, apparently.

She didn’t make a sound, happily munching on the sleeve of her too-large long-sleeved shirt, staring up at Sherlock with huge, curious eyes. Sherlock sat crossed-legged in front of her, studying her petite form. She was so _tiny_. Such a dumb and obvious statement, but she was. A miniaturised human. It was fascinating. Sherlock leaned closer, frowning. Jane mirrored his expression. Sherlock smiled. All babies with a perfectly functioning brain would do that: imitate an adult’s facial expressions. That was how they learnt.

As soon as he smiled, Jane mirrored that as well, but for only a few seconds. Sherlock thought that his smile had something ridiculous, because the child started _laughing_. Not a quiet laugh either. A real fit of lovely giggles escaped from her tiny mouth, her little body quavering with delight.

Right then, John opened the door of the bathroom, exiting with a surprised smile. “What happened then?” He asked, amused, lifting Jane up and throwing her in the air, catching her as she kept laughing happily.

“She’s… an unusual child,” Sherlock commented. John gave him a lopsided grin. “Is she now,” he said in a playful tone, bringing his hand up to tickle Jane’s tummy, who laughed even harder.

“She’s delightful,” Sherlock said, baffled. John laughed, “Not all children are irritating as fuck.”

Sherlock bowed his head, conceding the point, looking at Jane as he did so. She was smiling at John, her mouth agape and showing all her eight teeth, as she played with his nostril. John wriggled away from her hold, giggling.

“Where do you keep her at work?” Sherlock asked, genuinely curious. He knew that in the morning, from Monday to Friday, John worked as a cleaner in a motel nearby. He had seen it written on a calendar hung on the fridge, that first night. He had also read that John worked four nights a week at the Barbarian, and was a barista in a coffee shop in the weekends and a few afternoons during the week.

John blushed a bright shade of crimson. “Not that it’s your business,” he grumbled, “but the cleaning trolley that I carry around has this big sack for the dirty laundry, and this way I can take Jane with me wherever I go.”

Sherlock was careful not to show any emotions on his face, and just nodded. John couldn’t afford a baby-sitter, right? He did his best with what he had, and that was honourable. And Jane looked like a happy, healthy child. He shouldn’t judge, like he knew his family would have. He was better than them.

“Shit, I’m late,” John exclaimed, slinging a heavy bag across his shoulders. “Thanks for the coffee, that was really thoughtful of you,” he continued, hurriedly ushering Sherlock towards the door.

“It was nothing,” Sherlock shrugged, as John closed the door. John smiled at him, and was going to turn and leave when he stopped.

“See you tonight, maybe?” he asked, and Sherlock thought he couldn’t have said ‘Yes’ more quickly.

 

  1. _Casper Watson was shy, but incredibly sensitive, and a hella good observer._



 

**15 th October, 07:26am**

Sherlock had become pretty good at helping John out with his fridge calendar. Scribbling down notes, reminders for bills to pay, meetings with teachers, appointments with the doctor, working schedules. Everything needed to be written down, to avoid stuff to clash. Sherlock helped John keeping the calendar updated, reminding John to transcribe whatever appointment he had forgotten. They checked it together in the morning, during breakfast.

Breakfast was always a hurried business. But they had some sort of a routine now.

John woke up at half past five in the morning and went running for about an hour. He came back at seven, and shook Sherlock awake. Sherlock would then leave John to his morning shower and prepare breakfast for everyone. After John was out of the shower, the two of them woke the Watson siblings. Sherlock went into Casper, Harry and Sue’s room, and called their names until they woke up. John instead had the much more unpleasant job of waking Gabe, who was untreatable in the morning, and Rosie, who awoke already babbling away.

Then they left the eldest kids debating for the shower, and head down to eat and check the calendar all together.

That morning, the electric bill was due. Sherlock was eating standing up, a bowl of cereals in his hands, as John checked the calendar on the fridge with a frown.

“Electric bill,” John muttered, tapping with his finger on the current day.

Around the kitchen table, Gabe was sleeping with his face in his bowl of cereals, while Rosie happily talked to Casper, who appeared utterly uninterested, as they both dove with gusto in their pancakes, that Sherlock had cooked. Harry was in her bathrobe, rubbing her wet hair with a towel with one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. Susan was sat on the kitchen counter, feeding Jane some pancake bits that she was cutting off from her own.

“Kids!” John called, taking a clean bowl and dropping in it some cash. Then he walked to stand in the middle of the room. “Electric bill,” he repeated, and everyone moved at once. Casper and Rosie started rummaging through their pockets, while Harry rolled her eyes and marched upstairs. Susan leaned over and grabbed her jacket, turning it in her hands looking for the pockets.

When Harry came back downstairs, she was dressed and was holding in her hands some money, that she threw in the bowl. John started walking around the room, and everyone let some cash fall in the bowl as well, and got back to their meal. Sherlock followed John into the living room, and observed as the man let the money fall on the coffee table and counted it with a worried frown. “Not enough,” he muttered, clearly unaware that Sherlock had followed him.

“How much?” Sherlock asked, and John started.

His eyes hardened. “I can take care of it,” he growled, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

He was on the verge of telling John to stop being a stubborn idiot and let him _help_ (he had the money, after all), when Caper appeared at his side, silent as ever.

“John,” his feeble voice called, and both men turned to look at him.

Casper took a deep breath, then handed John a fifty-pound note. John stared at the proffered money with wide eyes.

“What the hell?” he whispered, and Caper started explaining, a worried glance in Sherlock’s direction, his voice still unsure and fragile. God, he was so _shy_.

“Yesterday I noticed that when Chris got to school his mum’s car was stuffed with bags. I guessed they planned on moving. So I asked him and then offered to help them move some stuff. His mum gave me fifty quid.”

John walked up to him and took the money, bending to kiss Casper’s red hair. “Good job,” he said proudly, and Casper smiled weakly up at him. Then John frowned, “Why didn’t you say sooner?”

Casper shrugged, “Harry was just complaining the other day that they couldn’t pay her week at the shop for financial troubles. I didn’t want to upset her, she’s the only one, apart from you, who has a steady job, I know she likes being able to help.”

John smiled warmly down at his brother. “You’re an amazing kid, Casper,” he whispered.  

 

  1.                   _Gabe Watson was an earthquake._



**22 nd October**, bloody 05:37am

Sherlock woke up to a mouth kissing his jaw.

“Jooohn,” he whined, pushing the man away and burrowing his face in the warm pillow. He heard John chuckle behind him, then the bed shifted and John got up. Sherlock listened as the man looked for his running kit in his drawers, and as the fabric of John’s boxers hit the floor. He heard John dressed up, and the faint sound of music being played by earphones reached him.

Then, footsteps approached the bed, and Sherlock felt John’s hot breath against the shell of his ear. He shivered.

“Can you do me a favour?” John’s silky voice murmured.

“Anything as long as you let me fucking _sleep_ ,” Sherlock grumbled in reply, and John huffed a quiet laugh.  “I swear, my mum used to complain I never slept but dear Lord she should meet you,” he added, and John lay down beside him again, slinging his warm arm across Sherlock’s waist.

They lay there for a while, John’s MP3 player diffusing a relaxing melody in the air around them.

“What did you wanna ask me?” Sherlock mumbled sleepily, and felt John stiffen ever so slightly behind him. Weird. John nudged his head against Sherlock’s curls and breathed in deeply. Then Sherlock felt him nodding against his hair, relaxing. It was as though he was debating whether to tell Sherlock what he was thinking or not, and had decided to just say it. Sherlock held his breath, waiting for whatever favour John needed from him. 

“Would you do the shopping for me today?”

Sherlock frowned. Just that? Why was John nervous about asking him this?

“Of course,” he answered, turning his head to study John’s expression. The man was lying on his belly, facing Sherlock. His deep, blue eyes were boring into Sherlock’s with intensity, and Sherlock could read in them a tiny sliver of fear.

“Really?” John whispered, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock’s frown deepened. “Yes, of course, what’s the problem?”

John sighed, “Nothing.” He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock hard on the mouth, caressing his hair as he did.

When they parted, John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s. “Have a good run,” Sherlock wished him, and John smiled, before kissing Sherlock’s cheek and flying out of the room.

Sherlock turned on his back and stared up at the dark ceiling. John Watson was still a mystery.

 

Two and a half hours later, Sherlock found himself in a Tesco’s, Gabe Watson on his hip and a kilometric shopping list in his free hand.

That morning Gabe’s kindergarten had called, and told them that there was a leak, and four classrooms (amongst which Gabe’s) had been flooded and were thus unavailable for a week.

John was distressed; he couldn’t bring Gabe to work like he did with Jane, and he couldn’t afford a baby-sitter. When Sherlock had offered to look after the youngest Watson brother, John had been hesitant. But after weighing all the pros and cons, he had relented, and left Sherlock alone with Gabe and the shopping list.

“Okay, Gabe,” Sherlock said, looking around the aisles, “This is unexplored land for me, you’ll have to be my guide.”

Gabe nodded enthusiastically, and wriggled in Sherlock’s hold until Sherlock let him down. The child grinned up at him and then, without warning, ran away and vanished behind the fruit section.

“Gabe!” Sherlock yelled, immediately following the kid in his stride, finding him sitting on the floor, happily munching on a handful of blackberries.

“How…” Sherlock was incredulous. He had lost sight of Gabe for no more than thirty seconds.  “We’ll have to pay for those, you know,” he said gravely, but Gabe shrugged. “Pay then,” he simply stated, licking on his fingers.

Sherlock was suddenly hit by the realisation that it was going to be a long week.

“C’mon, up you get, let’s go.” He offered Gabe his hand, and the child took it. Sherlock inwardly cringed. His hand was now covered in child’s saliva and blackberry juice. Great.

Heaving a long suffering sigh, Sherlock kneeled beside Gabe and dug a tissue from the bag that John had given him earlier that day.

“You’re a mess of a child, aren’t you,” he grumbled, passing the tissue on Gabe’s purple-stained hands. Gabe just stared at him.

“Liam-yam,” Gabe murmured, “I want _toottieth_!” The last word was yelled, catching a few amused stares from the other customers.

Sherlock was bewildered. He didn’t know what to do. What did he want? Liam-yam? What the hell-?

“W-what?”

Gabe glared at him, then started speaking slowly, as if _Sherlock_ were the three-year old between the two of them.

“I,” and he pointed at himself, “want _toottieth_.” He finished by waving his hands around.

“I’m, I’m sorry Gabe, I don’t understand,” Sherlock said apologetically, and gasped when Gabe stomped his foot on the floor.

“Toottieth!” he yelled, tears welling up in his eyes, an angry frown on his face. Then, he started crying. Loudly. Terrorised, Sherlock did the only thing he could think of.

He called John.

He answered after three rings. “What’s wrong? Is Gabe okay? What happened?” John panted, his voice just a tad panicked.

“All is fine don’t worr-” Just then, Gabe decided to emit a particularly high shrill.

“Why’s he crying?”

“I… He asked me something, I can’t understand what he’s telling me, though,” Sherlock explained, anxiety rippling from each word he spoke.

On the other side of the phone, John sighed, relieved. “Okay, calm down now. It’s okay. Gabe has a bit of a speech disorder, he’s a mess at pronouncing some words correctly, and he gets very upset when we don’t understand him. So don’t worry. Pass me over.”

Sherlock pressed his phone to Gabe’s ear. “It’s John,” he explained, and the child immediately calmed down.

“H-hi,” he sniffed in the phoned, probably answering John.

“I atzed Liam-yam my toottieth, and he not sthand,” he whined in the phone. Then he nodded at something John said and chuckled.

Sherlock brought the phone back to his ear. “So?” He demanded.

“Liam-yam is you. Gabe likes reiterating sounds in names. Like, I’m John-non, while Susan is Sue-sue. The toottieth he wants so badly are his cookies. They are in a plastic lunch box I put in the bag.”

Sherlock rummaged through the bag and took out the lunch box, offering Gabe a cookie. Gabe clapped his hands, delighted. “Thantz,” he said with a huge grin, before stuffing the whole thing in his mouth.

Sherlock sighed, relief washing all over him. “Thank you, and sorry if I bothered you.”

“No William, I _want_ you to call me whenever they need. Also-” John broke off, voices interrupting him in the background.

“Sorry I have to go, give Gabe a kiss from me,” he finished, and the line went dead. Sherlock sighed.

“Okay Gabe, ready for the shopping?”

Gabe’s grin could have lit up a city.

 

Shopping with Gabe was _no_ fun, Sherlock decided. The kid kept running around, throwing stuff off the shelves and brushing off every reproach. Sherlock eventually gave up and went back home with half the stuff they needed. For just a tiny moment, he felt like apologising to his mother. Just for a moment.

 

  1. _Rosie Watson loved talking, and hid a quite aggressive behaviour beneath her vivacious personality._



**28 th October, 06:38pm**

“That _bitch_!” Rosie yelled, slamming the door behind her. Sherlock was on the couch, playing Mario Kart with Casper (he had managed to bond with the boy, after all, though he still spoke rarely), and his head whirled around at the sound of the little girl’s angry tone.

“Rosie!” He exclaimed, “Language!”

Rosie let out a screech without opening her mouth, her hands balled up in fists at her side, her face red, her whole body tense. “I don’t give a _fuck_!” She finally yelled, startling a miraculously quiet Gabe from his intent observation of the rug.

“Rosie!” Sherlock was astonished. What was going on?

“Care to explain?” He asked, getting up from the couch, leaving Jane leaning on Casper’s side and not his own. He approached Rosie, who was silently crying angry tears, sat on the first step of the stairs. She shook her head vigorously, and Sherlock sighed, sitting down beside her. He recalled the facts he knew and observed the little girl.

She had come back earlier than anticipated from her school’s science fair. She and Sherlock had spent whole afternoons working on her project, a standard and cliché volcano, but that they had perfected and modelled and the lava that came out of it looked almost real. Rosie was ecstatic, and was sure she was going to win the first place (Sherlock was sure of it as well). But Rosie had no first place bow, and her volcano was gone. Her hands were stained with black, and there were tiny dots circled in black on the hem of her t-shirt (as though something had burnt its way through the fabric). He looked at her messy hair, at her ashamed expression, hiding behind a mask of fury.

“The volcano didn’t work?” He questioned softly, and she shook her head, holding her breath. “Jeez, breathe Rosie, it’s fine,” he said, mildly alarmed. Kids could be so dramatic.

“No,” she stuttered out, still refusing to breathe, her face growing redder and redder. Okay, now Sherlock was getting seriously concerned.

“Breathe, please,” he said, and tentatively reached out to rub soothing circles on her back. It was startling how quickly he was getting use to demonstration of affection. The gesture seemed to calm her down, and Rosie took a deep breath.

She brought up her tiny hands and rubbed her eyes dry, before cleaning the snot pooling under her nose with her left sleeve. Sherlock tried not to cringe.

“Lilian,” she sniffed, and Sherlock patiently waited for the rest.

“I wanted to make an impression, ‘cause Lilian heard me talking about the volcano and she brought one too. Hers was ugly, but I thought I had to make mine look better, you know? I guess I messed something up because it blew up and everyone laughed at me and Lilian called me stupid so I kicked her and pulled her hair and I bit her and the teacher now is mad at me and sent me home and told me I can’t go to science fairs anymore and it’s that bitch of Lilian’s fault an-” Sherlock cut her rambling by shushing her.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, because he had no idea of what else to say. Where the fuck was John in moments like this? Perhaps he should reproach her for having beaten up that girl, but in Sherlock’s opinion, that Lilian deserved it. How dared she call Rosie stupid? Sherlock bet her volcano wasn’t half as good as Rosie’s.

“You know,” he started, and Rosie looked up, “When I was your age I used to blow stuff up too. Even now, when an experiment is delicate, something explodes. And yet, you know that I used to attend one of the best Chemistry courses of the nation?”

Rosie shook her head, apparently mesmerised by Sherlock’s word. He stared right into her eyes, with a serious expression. “You’re not stupid, and no hag can tell you otherwise, understood?”

Rosie’s smile was weak, but there.

“Can I play at Mario Kart too, now?” She asked, and Sherlock laughed, before nodding.

 

  1.                   _Harriet (Harry) Watson had inherited Joe’s love for the bottle._



**2 nd November, 3:44am**

It was the noise that woke him up. Banging and clatters of what sounded like pans being thrown around.

He poked John’s ribs. The man grumbled and turned away from him. A loud bang from downstairs, and John bolted upright.

“Whatisit?” he exclaimed in the darkness. Sherlock got up and tiptoed towards the door.

“I don’t know, it’s coming from downstairs.”

John scoffed. “Must be Joe,” he muttered, getting up as well and leading the way downstairs. “Tosser comes home whenever the fuck he wants, what the hell does he th-”

Both Sherlock and John froze on the stairs that lead from upstairs directly to the kitchen.

On the floor, amongst saucepans and cutlery, was Harriet, curled up on her side, her body heaving with violent sobs as she hugged a bottle of tequila.

“Harry…” John whispered, his voice wavering painfully. He took a few steps forward and crouched beside his sister. Sherlock thought he was intruding on something very private, as John caressed Harry’s short hair and tears welled up in his eyes.

He retreated upstairs, and let the two siblings sort things out. Two hours later, John climbed into bed, looking incredibly tired, and at least ten years older.

He lay on his back, and sought Sherlock’s hand in the dark. Sherlock didn’t speak. He waited for John to start.

“Her girlfriend,” John eventually said, and Sherlock held his breath. “Well, not really girlfriend but it’s uhm… it’s complicated.”

John sighed, and still Sherlock didn’t utter a noise. He knew about Harry’s ‘fuck buddy’, the girl who refused to acknowledge her sexuality and that caused Harry to come home with a sad smile every time they met.

“She’s getting married, to a guy who apparently knocked her up,” John finally whispered, and Sherlock felt cold horror down on him. He couldn’t even imagine how painful it would be, to see the person you love marry someone else.

“How old is the girl?” Sherlock heard himself ask.

“Only eighteen. The groom’s a Russian guy I often saw down at the pub. He’s more than twenty, I think. Saw him talk to Joe a couple of times.”

“How’s Harry?”

John let out a bitter laugh. “You’ve seen her.”

Sherlock felt that John wanted to say more.

“I…” John broke off, and suddenly turned to hide his face in Sherlock’s neck, wrapping his limbs around his frame. Sherlock held him tight.

“I’m worried about her,” he admitted against Sherlock’s skin, “I’m so bloody terrified she’ll end up like Joe, wandering from pub to pub and with no future ahead.”

Sherlock struggled to find the right words.

“She won’t.”

John shook his head. “You can’t know that.”

Sherlock pulled back, tilting John’s chin up with his fingers. “Yes, I can,” he said firmly, staring into John’s blue eyes, “And you know why? Because she has _you_.”

John blinked at him, before leaning up to kiss him passionately, urgently. Sherlock kissed him back with just the same fevered passion, wrapping his arms around John’s smaller frame.

John straddled his waist, his lips never leaving Sherlock’s. John started divesting him with quick movements, shirt first, boxers next. Sherlock let him lead the pace, sensing John’s almost desperate need of closeness. Suddenly, when they were both naked and John had already wrapped his lube-slicked fingers around their erections, John tenderly cupped Sherlock’s cheek with one hand, and touched their foreheads together, closing his eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispered through gritted teeth, “I don’t say it often, so be careful to remember this. But… Thank you, William.” John sounded like he was crying, and Sherlock felt wetness on the man's cheeks. “I’m glad you’re here,” he added, and before Sherlock could answer, John was kissing him again, pumping their cocks together, and Sherlock couldn’t have spoken even if he’d known what to say.

John rolled his hips, jerking his wrist with expert precision, bracing with one hand on the headboard behind Sherlock’s head. Sherlock kept his hands on John’s hips, unable to stop his own from canting relentlessly. His mouth was hanging open, and John gasped against it repeatedly, moving faster and faster.

It wasn’t long until they both came, almost in the same instant, muffling their noises against each other’s skin. Sherlock could only hear a faint buzzing in his ears, and everything around him was white and blissful. He didn’t even notice that John got up and cleaned them up, before setting back into bed and helping Sherlock step into his boxers again (“You know that Gabe sometimes has bad dreams.” “Mmh.”)

When he felt John’s comforting warmth beside him, Sherlock instinctively reached out to drape all his limbs around him, nestling his face into the crook of John’s neck.

The last thing he felt before falling asleep, was John’s hand lazily carding through his curls, and Sherlock thought that he might never know happiness, but this really came close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Every click, kudos, bookmark or comment is a real joy. 
> 
> As I said, this chapter was tough for me, please let me know what you think of it!
> 
> See you next time :) xx


	4. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a roller-coaster: I would write down entire paragraphs in an hour, and then it'd take me days to get out of my head three words. And, if I have to be completely honest, I'm still not satisfied with some bits (the ones it took me longer to write, what a surprise). Arghhh _writing_!!! 
> 
> **IMPORTANT NOTE** : okay there is the description of a character with Bipolar Personality Disorder in this chapter. I want to make it clear that this is not _at all_ my take on people with BPD. The description of this character is taken straight from Shameless characterization of them, and it doesn't reflect my opinion. I perfectly know what BPD is from a very personal and close experience, so I know what this illness is like. If this issue triggers you in any way, just let me know so I can tell you which part of the chapter to skip :)
> 
>  
> 
> TW for reference to attempted suicide and mental illness.

“You’re such a commitment phobic,” Janine grumbled, slamming a colourful mug in front of John. He scowled at it, and waited until Janine sat in front of him before lifting his face to show her his frown.

“I shouldn’t have talked to you about it.”

She snorted, bringing her own mug to her mouth and blowing on it. “About what? About the fact that you almost got a panic attack this morning because you found your boyfriend doing the dishes for you?”

John flinched, and she tsk’d. “Right, sorry,” she said, and she didn’t sound apologetic _at all_ , “We’re not allowed to use the B word, right?”

“You’re so very much _not_ helpful,” John said, hiding behind his mug of steaming tea.

Janine leaned across the table, her eyes going soft at the corner, “You like him quite a lot, don’t you?”

Her voice was light and gentle, and John closed his eyes. “It’s just,” he started, pursing his lips in thought. “Yeah, I like him a lot, but he ah, it’s just _sudden_ , you know what I mean?”

Janine nodded, tracing the outline of a cartoon character on her mug. “Mmh mmh, yeah, I get that.”

Now that John had her comprehension, words started falling from his mouth like a flooding river. “I mean, I met the guy one month ago, for Christ’s sakes, and he’s what, sleeping at my house and he fucking looks after the kids and helps cleaning up, what the actual _fuck_ Janine, I found myself a husband, literally, and what, I mean, yeah, I _do_ like him but I can’t stop thinking that one more month and he’s gonna hate all this. That he’ll be old and wrinkled and he will laugh about me with his spouse like ‘Yeah I had a fling with this ghetto boy once, it was cray cray’, I’m just-” John suddenly stopped, realising he had perhaps said too much. Janine was looking at him with a half-surprised, half-pitiful expression, and John shook his head at her. “Don’t,” he just said.

“You should talk to him,” Janine eventually murmured, breaking the awkward silence that had stretched between them for long minutes.

John forcefully shook his head. “No.”

“John,” Janine started, but he stopped her, lifting his hand.

She glared at him, “No, you came here for advice and I will force some goddamn good sense in that silly head of yours even if I will have to fucking tie you to this table.” She tilted her head to the side, daring John to interrupt her again. When he opened his mouth to do just so, she beathim to it. “Okay listen. I know you’re scared,” she said, and John huffed.

“Of what, exactly?” He snarled, when she didn’t speak again. She sighed through her nose, a sad smile playing at her lips as she did so. She lowered her gaze, studying her mug as if it held the secrets of the universe. Then she took a deep breath and stared up at him, pinning him with her warm, hazelnut gaze.

“He’s not her, John,” she whispered, and John froze. His eyes snapped shut, and he sucked his lips over his teeth, biting down on the skin. He could taste copper now, mixing with the flavour of the strong tea. He clenched his fists, worrying the skin around his thumbnail, an old nervous habit of when he was a kid and he was alone, in his bed, wondering if Joe would come home that night or he had left them alone for good.

“Thank you for the tea,” he spat through gritted teeth. He got up and fled, leaving a sad-looking Janine at the table.

He slammed Janine’s front door with anger, and walked the five metres to reach his house, and sat down on the first step, fuming.

How dared Janine bring up Margaret? And for fuck’s sakes, John _knew_ William wasn’t Margaret. Wait. Did he? John shook his head, his eyes closed and his lips pressed together in a thin line. Janine had messed with his head, that was all. Bollocks, bollocks, _bollocks_! John bent his knees and hid his head between them. Was he scared of William leaving?

Yes.

No!

Yes. He was. There was no denying it, and John wasn’t that stupid to try and lie to himself. He was scared as fuck that William would get bored, that he will leave. Like Margaret. John shivered.

He would never forget the first time Margaret left.

After almost fifteen years, he could still perfectly see his mother crouched in front of him, her face tear-stained, a fake smile on her coloured lips. He could still smell the rain that had just fallen on the concrete, soaking it, he could still hear Harry wailing in the Station Wagon they called home.

“I’m sorry, John,” Margaret had whispered, caressing John’s cheek, “But perhaps your mum wasn’t born to be a mum. I need to find my way, I need to do that for myself. Do you realise that?”

John had been only five and a half, but he understood. “You’re selfish,” he had said, feeling slightly proud for using a new word. He had read it the day before, in a book he had found in a motel room.

Margaret had sucked in a hurt breath, gaping like a fish. “John,” she had tried to say, but he averted her eyes and climbed back in the car. He sat Harry on his lap, trying to calm her down. Susan was watching him from the other backseat. “Mummy?” She asked, her lower lip trembling.

John bit the inside of his cheek, hard, before answering. “She’s gone, Sue.”

Susan’s expression was of pure horror, and John watched, helpless, as she slammed her hands against the glass, Margaret’s silhouette walking away without looking back once.

“Shite,” Joe had exclaimed when he sat back in the car, “After this, kids? Woah, your old man needs to get stoned. Buckle up, off we go.”

John would never forget the feeling of silent rage and betrayal and hurt and abandonment and horror and terror. Just thinking back about it, John felt like he was going to be sick. And Margaret had done it more than once. John had memorised the pattern by now.

 _Phase 1_. Margaret comes back and Joe is happy and they get together again.

 _Phase 2_. They get high together and have fun and it’s usually while high that Margaret ends up pregnant of yet another Watson.

 _Phase 3_. Margaret plays happy family with the kids: she goes to the school meetings showing off her swollen belly, she cooks and cleans and plays with the little ones.

 _Phase 4_. The Breakdown.

They called it like that, in the family, and whenever Margaret was around, everyone knew it was coming. It was easy forgetting it, when she smiled all the time and was cheerful and hugged you and… when she was a Mum, basically. But then the happy days would end, and they’d find Margaret curled up in a foetal position somewhere, crying and unable to speak.

She tried to kill herself, once, swallowing a way too high dose of barbiturates. John was the one who had found her, lying on the bathroom floor, seemingly lifeless.

Bipolar I Personality Disorder, that was what the doctor had told John. He had been fourteen then, and the doctor had thrown him a pitiful look, when she saw John in the waiting room. And what a scene he must have been. He had gone to the hospital with all the kids (Rosie and Casper had been only three and five years old, respectively, and John knew no one he trusted enough to look after them). All four of them were crying, clinging to John as he reassured them all, saying it was fine. The doctor didn’t ask John for an adult, just placed two bottles of pills in his hand.

“These are for your mum,” she had said. “It’s quite illegal of me to give them to a minor, without a prescription, moreover, but you have to make sure she takes them. Can you do it?” John had nodded, promising he’d do his best.

It wasn’t enough. Margaret flushed them three days later and left that same day.

The last time Margaret left was one month after Jane was born. This time, John hoped she wouldn’t come back again. Every time she did, one of the kids believed her when she said she would change, and stay for real that time. And it was always John the one who had to pick up the pieces of his siblings’ broken hearts.

Sometimes John wished he could magically heal them all. If he could, he would have taken all their scars, all their sufferings, all the bad things that Joe and Margaret had forced them to see. John wanted his siblings to have what he didn’t have the chance to even _wish_ for. He wanted them to be happy and free and light-hearted, to focus on their studies and go to uni and get a degree and a good job and leave this fucking dumpster. He didn’t want them to get stuck there like he was.

John counted on the fingers of his hand.

Jane had just turned one. William had bought her a pink cupcake with a light blue candle on it, and they all sang for her around the dinner table just the other night. John thought of how happy Jane had looked, how fondly William had looked at him and… no, wait. Digression. He counted again. Jane was one. This gave John seventeen years. He was turning twenty in December. So, twenty plus seventeen is thirty-seven.

Almost forty by the time everyone was out. He sighed. He was destined to live his life here.

He mentally slapped himself. John Watson wasn’t one to cry over himself. Who cared how old he would be when he was finally free of having to parent his siblings. It was how it was.

For the briefest of moments, John saw William, older than now, wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, smiling at John in the kitchen as they rinsed their tea-stained mugs in the sink, side by side.

It was a flash, but as soon as John realised what he was thinking, he snapped back to reality out of breath and with a racing heart.

If there was a thing he had learnt in life, it was that everyone always, _always_ leaves, eventually. There was no way William would still be there in a few years.

He sighed again. Janine was right, for fuck’s sakes.

He _was_ scared William would be like Margaret, after all. But why?

 

* * *

 

An hour later, John was still sitting on the first step of the house, pondering.

“Oh,” William said, two large shopping bags in his hands, Gabe clinging to that ridiculous billowing fancy coat of his. “Everything alright?”

John nodded, immensely tired. “Yeah,” he croaked, cringing at how broken his voice sounded.

William shot him a weird look, but said nothing. Then he tilted his head, “Don’t you have a shift at the coffee shop in like, fifteen minutes?”

John jumped up with a muffled curse and ran inside the house. Shit shit shit. Idiot, sitting outside his house and letting his mind wander off such inane topics while he needed to fucking _work_. And he was in sweatpants and a hoodie.

He shoved past Harry and Casper on the stairs, diving into the bedroom looking for clean clothes. Yesterday’s shirt? John sniffed at it. Still good.

“John,” William calmly called from the door. As if John wasn’t risking to lose his job. Shit, buggering _fuck_.

“Not now,” he yelled, attacking the drawer, looking for a pair of jeans.

A hand on his shoulder. John shrugged it off. “Not now, Will. I need to get to work or they’ll fire me, I’m only covering shifts, I’m not under any contracts, the can get rid of me-”

“Will you just listen?” William exclaimed turning him around to face him. “I have a plan.”

John frowned. “Have you invented teleport or something?”

Will rolled his eyes and handed John his phone. “Call in sick.”

John thought he had misheard. But a look at William’s serious face and the proffered phone, and John knew he had heard perfectly well. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“I talked to Irene. She’s willing to cover this shift for you. And I kinda hoped you’d be free today, because I managed to get us a suite at the Savoy.”

John laughed. What else could he do? He turned his back to William and started rummaging through his clothes once more.

“Dunno if you noticed,” he grumbled, shoving his sweatpants down and wriggling into his jeans, “but I’m not really the type who can afford the fucking Savoy.”

William huffed, “I said I _managed_ to get us a suite, not that we would have to _pay_ for it.”

“Despite my curiosity as to how you _managed_ to get a suite for free, I really can’t lose this job.” John exited the room and trotted down the stairs, clenching and unclenching his fist, so nervous he was. He _really_ couldn’t lose this job.

In the living room, he turned around and stared at Will, “Okay, I’ve already made dinner, you just need to heat it up. Susan is tutoring a kid from school until six, so call her if she isn’t back by seven. I don’t like the road she has to walk by to get home. Rosie and Casper still have their homework to do, check on them. Jane is still sleeping in her room, she’ll wake up soon. I’ll be back by eight.”

This said, he flew out of the house, praying to God he would get to the coffee shop on time.

 

* * *

 

“I just don’t know what to do!” Sherlock complained, watching the sad dinner spin around inside the microwave, Jane babbling sleepily on his shoulder.

Irene was sat at the kitchen counter, Gabe eating an ice cream in her lap. At Sherlock’s words, she cocked her head and gave him a _look_. He knew that look.

“Stop it,” he snapped, and the microwave beeped. Sherlock took out the dinner and slammed it on the table.

“Kids!” He called, “Dinner!”

Harry, Rosie, Susan and Casper trudged downstairs. They immediately set to work, laying out dishes and cutlery. “Alt,” Sherlock stopped Rosie before she could start helping the others. “Did you wash your hands?”

Rosie blushed. “Yes,” she lied. Sherlock sighed. “Go wash them,” he muttered. Rosie nodded sheepishly and vanished in the bathroom downstairs. Sherlock turned to Irene, still giving him that look. The ‘you genius, you already have the way to figure shit out for yourself why are you wasting my precious time’.

“Come on, enlighten me,” Sherlock said, miffed, jostling Jane on his hip. Irene sighed, as if Sherlock had asked the dullest question ever. Sometimes, she really did unnerve him.

“You still haven’t understood a very important thing about John,” Irene started, cleaning Gabe’s clammy fingers with a napkin.

She didn’t continue. Sherlock gritted his teeth. She really, _really_ wanted to unnerve him, then. “What?”

Irene looked up from Gabe’s fingers. “Oh, William. John has to take decisions all the time, has shit to do all the time. Just, take the situation in your hands. Drop the little ones somewhere and tell John he’s coming with you, willing or unwilling.” She paused, then. “No pun intended,” she said with a flirtatious grin, and a wink.

Sherlock ignored the last bit, focusing on Irene’s first words. Earlier he had given John the time to think too much about his offer. John would have had to call in sick and prepare the necessary stuff for one night, and prepare the kids for a night alone… Stupid Sherlock. He should have done everything _before_ asking John.

Quickly, he set his plan in motion.

“Irene can you and Janine babysit Jane and Gabe tonight?”

Irene shook her head, “Jane is fine, but this little troll is a wrecking ball. I couldn’t stand him more than two hours.”

Sherlock thought that Gabe looked slightly offended. “But,” Irene continued, looking down at Gabe with a smile and a playful voice, “I know that dear Mrs. Hudson loves you to bits, isn’t it true, little troll?”

Gabe brightened, throwing his hands in the air, the ice cream in his hand flying across the room and landing with a squashy sound on the floor. “Nana Hutzon!” He yelled merrily.

 _Perfect_ , Sherlock thought sarcastically, and turned with sigh to clean Gabe’s mess, Jane now actively asleep on his shoulder, completely unaware of everything.

 

* * *

 

John came back home totally knackered. He had arrived at the coffee shop ten minutes late, and the manager had taken away an entire hour of pay. As if it wasn’t enough, the place was full of idiots (in John’s opinion, only idiots would be willing to spend pay five pounds for a bloody coffee) who kept asking John to draw ‘Christmas stuff’ on their drinks. In fucking November.

God, John _hated_ humanity.

He opened the front door and walked in, basking in the only slightly warmer temperature inside the house. He was famished. Without even shrugging his coat off, he walked past the living room and into the kitchen, his mouth watering at the smell that still lingered in the small room. There was nothing on the kitchen counter, though. Or in the microwave. Nor on the table. John’s stomach grumbled. Where the fuck _was_ his dinner? He had cooked it, it just needed to be heated up. Had the others finished it?

Just then, the front door opened, and William appeared, his cheeks red from the chilly air outside, his neck and mouth hidden by a blue scarf.

“Hey there,” Will called, taking his black leather gloves off. John didn’t have time for niceties. He needed to _eat_.

“Where is my dinner?” He asked, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. He always got grumpy, when he was hungry.

“We can call room service at the Savoy,” William simply said, leaning over the couch to retrieve a small bag.

John blinked at him. “What?”

William shrugged. “Jane is with Irene and Janine. Gabe is with Mrs. Hudson. Harry and Sue promised to keep an eye on Casper and Rosie. They are all upstairs, doing their homework, if you wanna ask them.”

John’s brain couldn’t elaborate. “Ask them what?”

“If they’re fine spending the night alone, do keep up.”

John took a calming breath. But he was fucking starving and he had no time for this bullshit.

“You go get Gabe, I’ll go get Jane and no one spends the night without me. You just don’t take my siblings and drop them off around without asking me, Jesus fucking Christ!”

He yelled the last bit, but William looked unfazed.

“It’s just one night,” William murmured, “Susan told me they have never spent a night without you. Don’t you want some time off?”

John closed his eyes. He did. God, he wanted it. Just him and Will, in a wide and comfortable bed, not having to worry about being too loud in fear someone could hear them. Was he selfish if he accepted?

“You’re not selfish.” William’s voice startled him, and for a split second John wondered if the man had developed superpowers, before realising he had said the last bit out loud. 

John let out a bitter laugh. “The kids stay here alone while I go and have fun. How is that not selfish?”

William walked up to him and hugged him. Of all the answers he had been waiting for, John didn’t expect this. William wasn’t prone to demonstrate his affection. He showed it through actions, massaging John’s back knowing without asking that it was bothering him, doing the shopping and stuff like that.

They rarely hugged.

“You are so brave,” William whispered against his hair, and John clang to him as if the world depended on it. “You are not selfish. You gave up everything for them. You’re just taking a pause. It’s not selfish, John. It’s only fair.”

His eyes stinging and unable to breathe, John only managed to nod against William’s coat, the thick wool scraping his cheek.

 

* * *

 

John fidgeted for the whole ride in the car. Before leaving he checked on the kids at home, with Irene and Janine and with Mrs. Hudson. Positive that they were all fine, he climbed in the car and William took off.

Still he was nervous. The fucking Savoy. People would see he didn’t belong there in nanoseconds. William had the posh air about him, he wouldn’t have had any problems. But John? With his coffee-stained jeans and wrinkled shirt, with his shaggy hair and his general ghetto kid demeanour? He wouldn’t fool anyone.

William placed his hand on his thigh. “Relax,” he said, “It’s gonna be fine.”

John nodded, trying to calm down, but it all went out of the window when the car stopped in front of the hotel (huge! So fucking grand!) and a guy parked the car for them. Heaven’s sakes.

William walked in as if he belonged in places like this, and John envied his ease as the man strode into the luxurious entrance. John had never felt so awkward and out of place in his life.

William didn’t go for the reception hall, like John thought he might, but walked up to a young member of the staff.

“William!” The girl exclaimed happily, obviously restraining from hugging him in front of her co-workers.

“Hey Molls,” Will answered, grinning toothily at the girl. She had light brown hair, tied up in a severe ponytail. Her brown eyes were huge and kind, and were staring up at William with affection.

“And this must be John!” she exclaimed, turning to John with a smile.

“John, this is Molly,” William introduced them, and John nodded in her direction. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

“You too!” She chirped happily, “Will has told me so much about you!”

John grinned at William, who had turned a bright shade of crimson and was glaring at Molly. “Has he now?” He asked teasingly, and Molly chuckled.

William cleared his throat. “The room, Molls.”

Molly sobered up, still smiling, and clapped her hands together, “Back to business, then. Follow me.”

This said, she turned and headed towards one of the lifts. John and Will followed her, and watched as she called it. Once in, she slid her card into a slot, and selected ‘Floor Five’. Then, she started speaking again, looking terribly excited.

“This is fool proof. Same old story; groom dumps the other groom on the altar, suite already paid. I did not tell anyone the room was available, no one will suspect anything until at least tomorrow.”

When the doors opened, John froze.  Marble, under his feet. All around him. _Marble_. They were already in room. John looked around the foyer, mouth agape, before he caught William smiling amused at him, so he closed it.

“W-what’s this?” He asked, flapping his hand around.

“It’s the Royale Suite,” Molly answered with a proud grin, eyes shining with childlike enthusiasm.

William produced a hundred-pound banknote from his coat. John gaped at it.

“For the effort and the risk you’re taking,” he whispered, handing Molly the money. She shook her head.

“This is for when you proved I hadn’t stolen that lady’s jewels from her room. I’d have lost this job if it weren’t for you.”

She smiled kindly at the both of them. “Have fun, lovebirds!” She winked at them and disappeared in the lift again.

 “What the fuck?!” John almost yelled, a surprised laugh bubbling up and escaping from his lips.

Beside him, Will beamed at him. “The Royale Suite is the biggest and richest room. We also have a personal butler, if you want to call him.”

John sputtered, “A _butler_?”

William nodded, amused. “I read this yesterday in the room description, you should hear the rest.” Will cleared his throat then, and started talking in a faux posh accent. “Refurbished at a cost of over £2.5 million, The Savoy’s Royal Suite is one of the capital’s finest and most well-appointed accommodations. Spread over the front of the entire fifth floor, the suite’s enfilade arrangement makes the most of the dramatic views over the River Thames. From each of the eight windows, guests can enjoy a magnificent London vista from Canary Wharf to the Houses of Parliament and beyond with seven of London’s bridges visible.”

“Oh my God,” John snickered.

“And it’s not all,” Will said in his normal voice, before going back to that ridiculous accent. “The elegant proportions and stately procession of rooms complement the sumptuous furnishings and beautiful artwork of the Edwardian interior to create a Royal Suite that is literally fit for a king.”

“Literally fit for a king,” John giggled, looking up at the ceiling of the foyer. Marble there as well.

“Wanna hear my favourite bit?” William asked, his arms circling John’s waist from behind, his hot breath on John’s neck.

John nodded, “Go ahead.”

This time, when Will recited what he had read on the hotel’s website, his voice came out in a sensual purr, that made John shiver. “The master bedroom is positioned adjacent to a large, walk-in dressing room with cedar-lined wardrobes and a spacious, en suite bathroom with a deep, soaking tub and a steam shower.”

“Mmh,” John murmured, “I have no idea what a soaking tub or a steam shower are but they sound good.”

Will bit the soft flesh that connected John’s neck to his shoulder, “Why don’t I show you?”

John smiled, and turned around in William’s hold to kiss the man.

He broke away after a few seconds. “C’mon, show me.”

William took his hand and started leading. “The foyer opens to the office,” he said, opening a thick wooden door. John ogled the splendour around him, the view of London at night visible through the window, the relaxing smell of wood coming off the walls, completely covered in polished wooden panels.

“Nice, but I guess we won’t be using this room,” John observed, at which William laughed softly.

“Indeed.”

Then William tugged at his hand, urging John forward. They walked through an enormous sitting room (“It’s three times bigger than my house!” John exclaimed, making Will chuckle) and an imposing dining room, that could easily host eight people around the table sat in the middle.

Finally, William opened the door that led to the bedroom. Holy mother of Christ.

John couldn’t believe his eyes. In the middle of the room was a fucking _enormous_ bed, that looked incredibly soft and comfortable.

He laughed, and ran to the giant bed, freeing himself of his shoes, and jumped on the covers.

He felt like a countryside, naïve boy, but frankly, he didn’t care.

 “Look at this shit William,” he said, an embarrassingly wide smile on his face, “My feet literally _sink_ in the mattress.”

Will had been observing John from the door, his arms crossed on his chest, his shoulder leaning against the frame. “Wanna see how a steam shower works?”

John looked at the gleam in William’s eyes, at the way he was smiling at John. “Oh, God yes.”

He jumped off the bed and followed Will in the en suite bathroom. Which was as large as John’s living room, if not more. No, definitely more.

 “I can’t believe this place,” John giggled, unable to suppress the bubble of elation and wonder that surrounded him when he set foot in the room.

William smiled affectionately at him. “That’s the steam shower by the way,” he said, gesturing towards his left.

John looked at it, and frowned. It was a normal shower. Very posh, granted, unnecessarily spacious and all surrounded in clear glass and black marble, but a normal shower nonetheless.

William chuckled at his expression, “Yeah, it’s nothing special, but it produces water vapour. It’s incredibly relaxing.”

John smirked. “How would you know?” He joked, but William’s expression changed all of a sudden, and he looked almost… scared? In a millisecond, it was gone, and Will smiled at him.

“I read it online,” he said simply, and started to unbutton his shirt.

John would have wanted to ask, but the sight of Will’s pale, unmarred skin made his mouth water and a warm pleasure settle in his belly.

“Let me,” he whispered, walking up to William and slipping the shirt off his arms. He leaned up to kiss Will’s clavicle, biting down softly. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, and Will shivered.

Slowly, delicately, William took John’s face in his big hands. “John,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes searching John’s as if looking for a way to continue. John understood.

“Shh, I know,” he said, caressing William’s curls and reaching up on his tiptoes to kiss him deeply.

William worked at his jeans as John kept moving his lips against his, slotting them together, darting out his tongue, making Will shiver and moan.

John was a fine damn kisser and he knew it.

With some difficulty (being the both of them somewhat reticent to separate to divest properly) they managed to get out their clothes.

Will broke away, his breathing already ragged, his pearl-white skin peppered in red marks, that appeared spontaneously whenever the man was aroused.

John smiled smugly, more than a bit proud of his ability in making William Scott crumble in his very hands.

John turned and walked towards the shower, opening the glass door and stepping in.

“Too many bloody buttons,” he muttered. “Help me out?” He asked, turning to Will. The man nodded, looking dazed, and stepped into the shower as well.

He fiddled with the taps and buttons until a gentle stream of water, just the right temperature, started falling on them, a cloud of steam already surrounding them.

“Oh God, this is so good,” John moaned, throwing his head back to let the water soak his face.

He closed his eyes, soaking in the sensations. He felt William’s hands on his back first, then the man’s lips on his exposed neck. John let him do what he pleased.

John didn’t move, just tilted his head further back, arching his back. The slide of William’s lips on his throat was delicious, the pleasure heightened by the presence of the hot water falling down in a strong stream. The pressure here was (unsurprisingly) much better than at his house. John let William’s lips trail down from his jaw to the side of his neck and down to his pectoral, to close around an erect nipple. John gasped softly, arching his back even more, pressing his erection against William’s hip.

Wordlessly, Will fell to his knees, and ran his palms up and down John’s shins and thighs. Then, he took John in his warm, expert mouth.

His legs already trembling, John rested his back against the black marble, and peered down at William.

The sight made his heart clench and he was hit by a wave of arousal so powerful his toes curled.

William, knelt in front of him, John’s cock engulfed between those perfect, plump lips. And his eyes. Christ, his eyes. John couldn’t tear his gaze away from Will’s crystalline blue irises, a wet curl falling amidst them. He was so beautiful. And John couldn’t resist thinking that he loved this man.

The realisation hit him like a slap in the face.

 _That_ was why John was so terrified Will would leave. Because he loved him. He loved how William’s hair was a mess in the morning, and the way he ate breakfast, with a groggy expression, his t-shirt wrinkled and his eyes sleepy. He loved how much he got along with his siblings, never, _ever_ treating them like a burden that came with John, but as their own people. He loved how Will had never made him feel ashamed of his messy house or his dickhead of a father. He loved Will’s voice. His eyes. His skin. His ears. He loved the way he moved, so gracefully in everything he did. He loved how clever he was. He even loved when he got all arrogant and superior and explained you things like you were two years old. He loved William. Period.

John came with a shout, and Will swallowed everything down.

John slid down to the tiled floor, boneless and feeling raw, aching, exposed.

He reached forward and cradled William in his arms, kissing him, deeply and messily, on the wet tiles. Holding Will’s face against his with an arm, John reached down and took William’s incredibly hard cock in his hand. He stroked relentlessly, understanding from his desperate movements and broken moans how much Will needed the release.

Finally, William sighed and spilled hot, white liquid in John’s palm.

John hadn’t stopped kissing him for a second. Not even when Will’s mouth had gone pliant and motionless under his, not when all Will could do was moaning and gasping.

Ruefully, he leaned back and stared Will in the eye. He opened his mouth to tell him-

He hesitated. Then spoke. “Well, I’m starting to see the perks of a steam shower,” he joked, making William chuckle.

He had almost told him he loved him. Almost.

 

* * *

 

“I’m still hungry as fuck,” John complained, throwing himself on the king size bed in his bathrobe.

“Don’t worry, I called room service.”

John made a noncommittal sound, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. He’d better feed John as soon as possible, or he would be a pain.

Sherlock looked at John, splayed on the bed, and suppressed the urge to launch himself at the man. John was hungry. He would have shoved Sherlock away.

Sherlock walked towards the dining room and sat at the table, waiting for their dinner to arrive. And thought. Something had happened in the shower.

John hadn’t spoken while they were at it. And that was weird. And that last joke? Clearly it wasn’t what John had planned on saying. John Watson. The uncrackable mystery.

Why why _why_. Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair.

The man was a conundrum, and unsolvable enigma. Sherlock couldn’t read him.

John wore his heart on his sleeve, never afraid of showing his emotions, always honest and direct and blunt. And yet, Sherlock could never anticipate his answers, nor his reactions.

Why did John behave the way he did in the shower? Sherlock had no clue. No clue at all.

Right then, a bell rang, and Sherlock got up and walked past the sitting room and the studio to reach the marble foyer.

Molly was there, everything Sherlock had ordered on a silver trolley. She winked at him.

“Got everything you wanted,” she said, conspiratorially, and then disappeared in the lift.

Sherlock shook his head, fondly. Odd girl.

He pushed the trolley into the dining room, and laid everything on the table. Satisfied of his handiwork, he turned and walked towards the master bedroom.

“John?” He called from the door. “Dinner’s ready.”

He watched with an amused smile as John jumped up and eagerly ran towards the laden table.

John sat down with a happy sigh, and Sherlock took place in front of him.

“I hope you got something I can pronounce the name of,” John muttered, reading the menu with a worried frown.

Sherlock’s smile grew even bigger. He gestured towards one of the plates in front of John. “Just lift the lid.”

When John revealed the food hidden underneath, he gaped, then laughed.

On silver plates and trails, were sandwiches and fast food dishes, all John’s favourite.

“Oh God, William,” John giggled, “You’re amazing.”

Sherlock preened, smiling at John. “Well, enjoy,” he said, when John, instead of diving head first in the food, kept staring at him with a soft expression.

 “Thank you,” John murmured, reaching out to trail his finger on Sherlock’s cheek, and then set out to eat.

Sherlock unsuccessfully tried to slow down his racing heart. It was just a caress on the cheek, nothing to make his biology betray him that much. Unable to start eating as long as his stomach was tied in knots, he watched as John took a big bite out of an enormous Big Mac.

“So,” he asked around a mouthful, “How did you get to order McDonald’s at the Savoy?”

“Molly,” he explained, taking a sip of his coke to soothe his parched tongue.

John uhm’d. “About her,” he started, “What’s the story of you helping her out with a theft?”

Sherlock smiled, happy to be able to show off, even a little bit.

“It was a couple of months ago, and I was pretending to be a valet, looking for a nice car to steal.” John huffed a laugh at that, smiling at him from behind his paper cup full of Sprite.

“Suddenly Molly ran out of the hotel, and I saw she was crying, so I asked her what was happening. She told me she had been fired because an old, pompous lady had accused of stealing her jewellery. It was clear that Molly wasn’t guilty, and you know how I can’t resist a good mystery.” He winked at John then, who rolled his eyes in return.

“You mean you can’t resist _showing off_ ,” he muttered, and Sherlock scowled at him.

“Wanna hear the end?”

John grinned, amused by Sherlock’s annoyed tone. “By all means, please go on.”

Sherlock huffed, taking a long time to munch on his chicken nuggets.

“Well, it was obvious that the woman had financial troubles, judging by the lack of personnel and the fact that her clothes were at least two years old. She needed money, so she tried to fool the insurance. I found her jewellery hidden in a pocket in her purse, and she confessed everything. And Molly got to keep her job of course.”

John smiled, “And I bet you even managed to get a nice car out of it.”

Sherlock smirked back, “A 2014 Lamborghini Gallardo. Driving it even for those few hours was a satisfaction.”

John chuckled softly. “Sometimes I can’t believe you’re real,” he murmured, as he shook his head fondly at his mayonnaise.

 _Me neither_ , Sherlock thought, but didn’t say.

 

 

Much to Sherlock’s satisfaction, John ate everything, even stealing some food from Sherlock, complaining that he hadn’t eaten in more than six hours. Sherlock didn’t tell him that he had skipped lunch _and_ dinner. John would have just tried to shove food into him, like his mother used to.

After dinner, John leaned back with a lazy smile, stretching out happily. “Was this a good meal,” he said, patting his belly.

“Bed?” Sherlock asked, getting up in one swift motion.

“Hey there, tiger,” John laughed, standing up as well, “My refractory period might be ace but I’m tired as fuck.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I can _see_ you’re knackered. I was proposing _bed_ in the sense of _sleep_.”

“Oh,” John replied, scratching the back of his neck with an embarrassed smile. “Take me to bed then.”

“Most happily,” Sherlock shook his head at him, heaving a fake long-suffering sigh.

They were already in their pyjamas after the shower, so they stopped in the bathroom to quickly brush their teeth (side by side, grinning at each other like idiots in their reflection) and then curled up in bed. Sherlock laid his head on John’s chest, the boy’s arms wrapped tightly around his middle section, his left hand carding through his curls.

Not even fifteen minutes later, John’s hand had stilled, his breathing even. Sherlock stretched up and kissed John’s jaw. The guy really was exhausted.

Sherlock, on the other hand, wasn’t tired in the least.

He closed his eyes and went to his mind palace. He had built it when he was nine, and Mycroft had taught his the technique of loci. Mycroft’s memory place was a castle, and Sherlock, who was still in his embarrassing ‘worshipping phase’ for his brother, had built a palace.

In there, he kept all the information he deemed important, and, in a far, far corner of an isolated room in the East wing, he kept all those situations which made him feel messy emotions, waiting to sort them out and place them in the right room or delete them.  

That was where he was directed tonight, and he walked straight there and sat in the middle of the room.

First, he analysed the shower sex of earlier. What did it mean? He replayed the whole scene, trying not to focus on the steamiest parts (lest having to wake John up and ask him to take care of Sherlock’s nineteen-year-old libido), and yep, it wasn’t just a feeling. John _had_ been weirdly silent throughout it all.

Distracted? No, his expression clearly indicated he was focused on Sherlock. Imagining someone else in Sherlock’s place? Mmh, _could_ be, but then he should’ve closed his eyes to maximise the fantasy, and his gaze had been trained on Sherlock the whole time.

Sherlock shook his head. He filed the whole shower thing away for further enquiry when he would have acquired more data. With it, he filed away even John’s hesitation after the sex, when he had opened his mouth to say something and then landed that bad joke, ‘ _Well, I’m starting to see the perks of a steam shower_.’  

Then he went to the third and last episode in the room. This one was not in plain sight as the other two, but was hidden in a golden and blue jewellery box place on a high shelf in the corner of the room. Sherlock stood on his tiptoes and took it, breathing deeply before opening it.

Their hug in the kitchen.

Sherlock still had no clue as to what the _fuck_ had crossed his mind in that moment. He had just felt this inexplicable tightness in his chest, and his body had moved as if of its own volition.

The whole thing baffled Sherlock immensely.

He had never felt _anything_ as what John Watson was making him feel. Anything. Ever.

He had known since he was fourteen that he’d rather kiss a boy than a girl, but had never really found anyone worth kissing, or worse, be in a relationship with. While in high school, he had snubbed his peers, deeming them a mass of brainless idiots. Uni wasn’t better. Just that the brainless idiots were rich, and that made them even more obnoxious.

That didn’t mean that Sherlock had never been _attracted_ to other guys, though.

He once had a rather unsatisfying mutual handjob in college with a classmate, in a closet at school. He had liked Victor, quite a lot, and had his real first sex experiences with him, always while high. After leaving uni and his family, he had had his fair share of sexual intercourses with random hook ups, all hot guys he met in clubs.

All these boys had something in common.

Sherlock didn’t find himself staring longingly at them like a lovesick puppy, and he didn’t kiss them hello or goodbye. He didn’t prepare them dinner or hold their hands or curled up next to them at night. He didn’t laugh at their silly jokes and let them good-naturedly mock him.

It was just physical attraction, there was nothing _more_ to it than that. They turned Sherlock on, and that was all.

And John too. Oh, so much so. Sherlock was _embarrassingly_ weak for the blond boy, but there was so much more than that to it.

Sherlock had always liked to think of himself as incapable of affection. Mycroft had told him when they were kids that ‘sentiment blinds one’s judgement, making them do stupid things.’ Then he’d started a relationship with his classmate Greg Lestrade and Sherlock understood that his brother had spoken in a moment of vulnerability. Could he have been right, though? Mycroft’s grades did drop after he and Greg got together, even if ever so slightly, and he was always in his room making out with his boyfriend, a loud punk-rock CD blasting from his speakers, barely spending time with his little brother anymore. And Sherlock had wondered. Was caring an advantage? Seeing Mycroft’s current situation, Sherlock guessed it wasn’t. And seeing how no classmate of his wanted to be his friend, Sherlock started thinking that maybe ( _maybe_ ) he really was incapable of affection.

Deep down he knew it wasn’t true. He had loved his dog, and his brother, before he became a self-centred, meddling git (and even then, just a tiny bit. Just a tiny, tiny bit). Despite his reluctance to admit it, he loved his parents. Even if they unnerved him in the worst possible way and had sent him to a headshrinker when he was thirteen. Hell, even his annoying brother-in-law of a cop had grown on him.

Sherlock liked Molly. She was kind and sweet and he had grown fond of her. Same for Irene. And Janine (even if she was a right pain in the ass sometimes). And John’s siblings. Which was weird, Sherlock had never been a kid lover. But they had something, something that Sherlock couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Maybe because each of them reminded him a bit of himself. Just, a better version of him.

Susan, so clever and yet so indomitable, her refusal for rules so similar to Sherlock’s own. She didn’t show her brilliance off though.

Harriet, who was gay and completely okay with it, and her addictive personality. But, mostly thanks to John, she was capable of stopping.

And Casper, observant and quick as Sherlock was, but quiter about his observations.

Rosie, science enthusiast, with a knack for explosives, just like Sherlock in school, except for the fact that her love for science gained her some friends, and not only bullies.

Gabe, full of life and undomitable energy. Uncontainable, yeah, but not half as destructive as Sherlock’s.

And Jane, who could focus on just one thing for hours, forgetting even to be hungry. Sherlock wasn’t as charming as she was, though. 

And then there was John. Who, as already stated, made Sherlock feel things he had _never_ experienced. A question popped into his mind. 

Was he in love with John Watson?

Just the unvoiced thought made him almost tachycardic, and his breath hitched.

He knew the answer, he did, but he wasn’t ready to face its consequences. So he quickly scribbled it down on a mental post-it that he shoved back in the blue and golden box, which he then hid behind a closed door, in the dungeons of his palace.

On the wooden door he wrote ‘Open only when John knows the real you’.

Then he spent a long while deleting the whole thought process and fell asleep, immensely exhausted. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for every hit and kudos and _especially_ your comments! I truly love reading them all, they make me keep on writing :) 
> 
> See you next chapter! xx


	5. Unfair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than the others, but I felt like where I ended it was a good place. 
> 
> This hasn't been proofread _at all_ because a) I don't like the beginning and if I read it again I'd write it for the fourth time and b) I hate proofreading. 
> 
> I apologize for any inaccuracies. 
> 
> Enjoy! xx
> 
>  **A/N** : I started naming the chapters! It had been my plan since the beginning, because I have an idea about how to tie some of them together, but then I changed my mind. Now though I changed it again so from now on every chapter will have a title! :)
> 
> TW for drugs mention

Martha Hudson woke up with a smile on her face, stretching like a cat on her bed.  She turned on her side to look at the sleeping child curled up next to her, and brought her hand up to caress his cheek. Gabe Watson slept like the dead, drooling on the pillow, his tiny, pink mouth agape, his golden curls falling messily on his closed eyes.

Martha leaned over and kissed his cheek, then she got up and wrapped herself in her dressing gown. She closed her bedroom door trying not to make a sound, and walked to her son’s door.

“Keith?” She called, knocking lightly on the white wood. Her son opened the door only a few seconds later, looking tired, but already dressed.

“Morning,” she chirped, kissing him on the cheek. He smiled, “Morning, Mum. Slept well?”

Martha nodded, starting to descend the staircase that led to the living room. “Yes, thank you dear. That Gabe Watson is angel.”

Keith let out a breathy laugh, “That’s not really how Sue describes him.”

Martha smiled, “You mean your girlfriend?” She asked, wriggling her eyebrows.

Keith rolled his eyes, “She’s my best mate.”

Martha tutted, taking out bowls and spoons and passing them to Keith to lay them on the breakfast table.

“Is that what kids call it these days?” She joked, and Keith pulled an annoyed face, though she could see he was smiling.

They both sat at the table and filled their bowls with cereals drowned in milk, and ate in companionable silence, Martha reading her newspaper, Keith checking his phone, and just enjoyed the quite air of the early morning, the birds chirping and the soft light. 

When he was finished, Keith put down his spoon and got up, placing his bowl in the sink and turning the tap on. As he rinsed his spoon, he sighed heavily.

Martha looked up from her morning newspaper. “Everything alright, honey?”

Keith turned, bracing himself on the sink. “I… I just hope that Dad won’t come visit before John comes to pick Gabe up,”  he murmured, his eyes glued to the ground.

Now it was Martha’s turn to sigh.

That dickhead of her ex-husband still came to visit his son, from time to time. He was a violent, angry, ignorant man, who had beaten up both Martha and Keith more than once. When she had finally managed to get a divorce, he hadn’t even cared, saying that he didn’t give a shit about her, but that he’d come for his son, because it was his right. _Right_ , yeah. He should’ve have no fucking right to come by, and Keith agreed. But fear is a powerful thing, and when Richard Hudson came, she retreated to the kitchen, and kept an eye on father and son, in silence in front of the TV.

The last time Richard passed by though, it hadn’t been pleasant. Martha had told him that Keith was upstairs doing his homework with a classmate. Richard had climbed the stairs as she and Harry Watson sipped on their tea.

Suddenly, they heard yelling and various thumps and bangs. Alarmed, Martha turned to Harry, who left her tea on the table and ran upstairs.

Just seconds later, Martha heard glass shattering and Richard came thumping downstairs, muttering, “A fucking Watson, queers, the lot of them, alcoholic queers just good to steal your money.”

Martha knew where Richard came from. Joe Watson wasn’t sanctity material, tricking insurances and pub mates into lending him money he never returned, that he used to buy his drugs and one last pint before closing time.  But his kids were a whole another story.

Martha could still remember the day the kids moved here, just two roads down hers, all bones and bright eyes. She had gone to say hello, bringing her homemade scones, and she had found Joe Watson smoking pot on a couch that the previous owners had left there, while three blond kids ran around, yelling happily about “real beds” and “can we sleep here every night?”

Martha had immediately taken them under her wing. Her husband had never approved. He hated Joe and hated the kids as a consequence. Not Martha.

She loved the seven Watsons. If it weren’t for her bad hip, she would have gone down to the council estate more often, to help that poor John take care of them all. But they were all also incredibly proud and stubborn, and rarely came to her for help.

That was why she had been so surprised the night before when her doorbell rang and she found this handsome boy asking her if she could babysit darling Gabe for the night.

John had certainly found himself a keeper, in her opinion. The guy had been a little brisk, and not at all prone to niceties and politeness, but William (yes, that was his name) had stricken Martha as a good lad.

Someone knocked on her windowpane. She smiled, recognising the rhythm.

She ran to the door. “John!” She exclaimed, hugging the blond teen to her chest.

She cupped his face in her hands, pressing a kiss to those smiling cheeks. He was so bloody young.

“Hey Mrs. H,” he said with a wink. He looked rested, Martha thought. Rested and content like she had rarely seen him. Like the nineteen-year-old he was supposed to be.

“Has Gabe behaved?” He asked, as she ushered him in, taking off his coat for him.

“He’s an angel,” she said, starting up the stairs.

“Hey Keith,” John waved at him from the first step, and Keith waved back, smiling around a glass of water.

She walked up the stairs and then down the short corridor, and opened her bedroom door.

“Yesterday we coloured with our fingers,” she told him, watching fondly as John tiptoed towards the bed, where Gabe was curled up, sleeping.

“That’s nice,” the boy commented with a grin, never taking his eyes off his brother. He kneeled beside the bed, caressing the child’s nose with the pad of his finger.

“Gabe,” he called, and the kid shifted. John chuckled. “C’mon monkey, I haven’t seen you for a long while. Is this my hello?”

Unexpectedly, Gabe jumped up, throwing his arms around John’s neck.

“John-non!” He yelled, not a trace of sleep in his voice. Which was unusual, the child hated being woken up.

Martha watched as Gabe recounted the night before to his brother, waving his hands in the air and making funny voices, all in that sometimes coherent, sometimes totally incomprehensible language of his. John was smiling fondly, adding all the right ‘Oh really’s and giggles required, all the while dressing up the child.

 _It’s not fair_ , Martha thought, sadly. John was a good, clever kid. He wanted to be a doctor, she remembered, when he had been eight or something, and she had first met him. And she was sure he could have.

She knew John Watson could have a had a brilliant carrier, she was certain about it. It wasn’t bloody fair that he was stuck here with six kids. Because, much as John always called them his siblings, it was clear that he was a father to them.

She went with them downstairs, and nagged and insisted until John accepted the packet with three sandwiches she had made for him, Gabe and that handsome boyfriend of his.

John blushed, laughing in an embarrassed way, leaving with a kiss on her cheek, Gabe secured on his hip, munching on his sandwich.

She watched from the window as John sat in the back seat of a fancy car, holding Gabe close to him. William turned and high-fived Gabe, before laughing at something the kid said. Then, they took off.

Martha had never met any of John’s past lovers. Perhaps, this William was here to stay.

She hoped so.

 

* * *

 

Harry checked her phone for what felt the millionth time. The sad, blue screensaver of her old Nokia blinked at her.

No texts.

She bit back a sob. She was done crying about Clara.

“Staring at that phone won’t make her magically text, you know,” Susan grumbled, a tad breathless.

Harry turned around ready to flip her sister off, but a look at her and she froze. Susan was leaning on the doorframe, her cheek an angry red, blood on the side of her face.

“What happened?” Harry exclaimed, throwing the phone on her bed and running to Susan’s side.

“Joe,” she just said, batting Harry’s hands away.

Harry gritted her teeth. “I’m gonna kill him,” she growled, taking Susan by the elbow and sitting her down on her bed.

“I’ll help you hide the body,” Susan joked, but she hissed moments later, pinching her eyes shut.

“Are Rosie and Casper alright? Wanna tell me what happened while I was here pining like a loser?” Harry asked softly, holding Susan’s hand in hers.  

Susan sighed. “They're fine, they’re helping Joe set fire to the couch in the garden. Well, Rosie is, Casper is mostly distressed about the whole situation. Joe hid some documents about the house in the bloody cushions for some reason, and an inspector is coming to check, so Joe tried to retrieve the documents but they were lost inside the couch. His great idea was to burn it. Like an inspector would ever think of opening up a couch. Anyway, I tried to stop him and he punched me. He’s pretty high, I think.”

Harry set her jaw, boiling with rage. “You need ice,” she said, at length, “And I need to murder our father.”

She marched down the stairs, ignoring Susan protesting behind her. She got to the freezer and took out some ice, wrapping it in a towel. She pressed it to Susan’s cheekbones.

“Hold this to your cheek, I’m going out.” She was about to open the door that led from the kitchen to the backyard, when Susan took hold of her arm and stopped.

“Wait for John and Will to come back,” she pleaded, “John always knows what to tell Joe, while Will intimidates him, you know that.”

Harry took a step towards the door anyway and opened it. In the garden, Joe was pouring gasoline on their couch, while Rosie helped him and Casper sat silently on the grass, observing the process with a tear-stained face.

“For fu- Wait for John and William, sure Sue, while we wait take out something to roast on our fucking couch!” Harry yelled, turning to glare at her sister.

“Listen, Joe is in a weird state of mind-” Susan started, distressed, and Harry scoffed.

“Oh, you mean weirder than usual?”

“Will you fucking listen, he’s high as a fucking kite, we’ll just try to get Rosie and Casper inside and then wait for John, and that’s it Harry, Joe’s bloody gone at the moment.”

Harry turned to look at Joe, dancing and laughing as he threw gasoline all around, hitting Rosie and Casper as well in the process.

“He’s gonna set them on fire…” she murmured, before trudging down the three wooden steps that led to the backyard.

“Rosie, Casper, it’s school day, hurry up,” she said, clapping her hands together twice.

Casper immediately complied, running inside and throwing at Harry a scared look, but Rosie only frowned at her.

“You’re not John, stop bossing around,” she muttered, before dipping her hands in some gasoline that had pooled on the fabric, smearing it all around.

“Rosie, come inside at once, or else.”

Rosie rolled her eyes. “Or else what? You’re not as good as John at threatening.”

Harry shoved down any instincts that pushed her to strangle her little sister.

“Well, what would John say then?” She asked, trying not to yell at her.

“He’d say that she’s grounded for two weeks,” John’s voice, even when seeping with cool anger, was heaven to Harry’s ears, “And that if she doesn’t go take a shower this very instant, John will add two more weeks.”

Rosie paled, staring at John, towering behind Harry. She nodded, mumbling some excuses, before flying inside.

Harry turned to tell John everything, but a look at his murderous gaze fixed on Joe’s dancing figure was enough to shut her up.

“Susan told me everything,” he said, trembling with ire, his fists tightened at his sides. “Now go inside Harry, it’s school time.”

Harry didn’t dare reply, and ran inside the house.

No one was in the kitchen, so she passed the counter and entered the living room.

William was sitting on the arm of the armchair, trying calm Jane down, who wouldn’t stop crying, as he talked in hushed voices with Susan. Casper cried while sitting on the floor, leaning on Susan’s shoulder, who was running her hands through his hair. Gabe sat on the rug, playing with his Lego pieces.

Harriet slumped down on the floor, lying on her belly, and started playing with Gabe. They had to wait for Rosie to shower, and then it’d be Casper’s turn. Only then they would have gone to school.

Suddenly they all heard muffled curses and groans, with a series a dull thuds that sounded like fists.

William immediately placed Jane on the rug and ran outside, and Harry followed him just as quickly. She stared from the window beside the backdoor as William divided Joe and John, and how Joe spit at John’s feet before turning his back on them and walking away. Then William said something, and John pushed him away, avoiding his gaze. Harry ran back into the living room before John came back inside and saw she had been watching.

“Okay,” John said, sporting a bloody lip and even bloodier knuckles, “Is everyone set for school?”

“John,” Sue started with a whisper, biting down on her lip, “You should go rest, Harry and I will take the kids to school after Casper showers.”

“Well, I’ve seen how well you and Harry deal with the kids, mmh?” John spat out. Harry had rarely seen him so mad.

William appeared behind him, and at John’s words he froze in the doorway.

“That’s not fair, John,” Harry murmured brokenly, trying hard not to cry.

John took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I’ll just… I’ll just take Jane then, shall I?” He said through gritted teeth, and walked up to the baby, taking her in his arms.

“Ask William if you need anything,” he continued, starting up the stairs. Then he stopped, leaning on the handrail to glare at Will, “And you,” he pointed at him, and the poor guy paled, “Don’t even think of coming up, understand?”

John didn’t wait for William to reply and continued to climb the stairs. None of them spoke, and the sound of John’s door slamming was deafening in the silence that had fallen on the living room.

“Y-you’ll be late, if Casper needs to shower,” William stammered, running his palms up and down his thighs. “I can give you a lift by car if you want.”

Harry smiled at him, swallowing down the lump in her throat. He looked so utterly terrified and out of his depth.

“Thank you, William,” she said.

He nodded, obviously relieved to have something to focus on. “Good, that’s… good.”

Harry took pity on him, all fidgety in the middle of the room.

“William can you look after Gabe while I go take my phone?” She asked, and he jerked his head towards her. He clearly wasn’t listening.

“S-sure,” he mumbled, and she got up and patted him on the shoulder.

“He’s not really mad at you, you know,” she said, “Just at himself. It’ll pass.”

William nodded absent-mindedly. He wasn’t paying any attention to her.

Harry sighed and walked up the stairs and into her room.

On her bed, the Nokia was glowing. She launched herself at it, eagerly opening the new texts. There were seven of them, all from Clara.

 

(Thursday, 07:28am)

_harry can u come over?_

 

(Thursday, 07:35am)

_hey shithead, r u there?_

 

(Thursday, 07:38am)

_bloody answer u cunt_

 

(Thursday, 07:39am)

_listen, sorry. can u come?_

 

(Thursday, 07:46am)

_i’m getting married in a few hours_

 

(Thursday, 07:50am)

_i need u_

 

(Thursday, 07:51am)

_forget the last one. don’t come, idgaf_

 

Harry couldn’t breathe.

She couldn’t.

She pocketed her phone and ran down the stairs. “I’m sorry Will, I can’t go to school today, tell John for me,” she yelled as she passed her family in the living room, then threw the front door open and started running.

Clara needed her.

Nothing else mattered.

 

* * *

 

After dropping off all the kids in their respective schools, half an hour late, Sherlock didn’t go back to John.

He kept driving, and the road took him to Montague Street.

He parked in the first free spot he found and turned the engine off, but didn’t climb out of the car immediately. He leaned with his forehead against the wheel and breathed.

It was so unfair. He was so full of anger, and self-hatred, and guilt, and it was so. Bloody. UNFAIR!

Sherlock slammed his fists against the wheel, ending up angrier than before and with sore hands.

John had deserved that night of rest. And more than that, he deserved a boyfriend who could help him and support him, not one who had to escape once a week to get his fix.

Sherlock felt sick. He was disgusted by himself. But... he had tried to get better.

Since he had met John, he had been diluting his cocaine a little more with every injection. He was trying to get clean by his own terms, slowly, the memory of the clinic even too bright in his mind.

His prickling, itching, burning skin. That horrible feeling in his bones, as though they were trying to escape his body. The maddening, craving, desperate _need_ that couldn’t be dulled by anything.

Sherlock shivered. He preferred his method, by far, ta very much. Watering down his doses little by little, he’d eventually manage to stop, right?

And yeah, sometimes he cheated, his body feeling too hot to be a good sign, but he did it just to avoid a fever. That would have aroused John’s suspicion. Sherlock could stop anytime.

He could cut the drugs off whenever he wanted, yeah.

He was just doing it slowly, so that his withdrawal symptoms could have been hidden better.

Sherlock let out a wet laugh. God, he sounded like a junkie.

Slowly, feeling his muscles like jelly, he climbed out of the car, and wandered down the street, over to Russel Square, and inside the park.

He reached the usual corner where, par usual, Marcus was leaning against a lamppost, a leather jacket hanging loosely around his shoulders.

Beside him, a new kid was rolling a cigarette, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Marcus always chose the dumbest assistants.

“Hey, Marcus,” he called, and the man lifted his head. When he saw Sherlock, his mouth broke into a huge grin.

“Well well, isn’t this my favourite costumer?”

Sherlock smiled at him, stretching his hand out. Their palms met, then they bumped their fists together.

“Jep, get out our dear Aunt Nora, but doll her up; man here deserves the best,” Marcus said, never taking his eyes off Sherlock as he spoke to the kid.

The kid grumbled, “Who’s this nig-”

“You might want to stop right there,” Sherlock interrupted him, flashing a grin in Marcus’ direction, whose body started shaking with a silent laugh.

Jep frowned, “W-what? Why?”

“The word you were about to say is a racist slur,” Sherlock explained at length.

“But Marcus says it all the time!” The kid complained, staring at the man in question as if looking for support. Marcus just snickered.

Sherlock bit back his smile. “Marcus is part of the minority your slur is aimed to offend, therefore he can use it.”

Jep took at least a full eight seconds to digest everything Sherlock had said. In that time, Sherlock mouthed a silent ‘Fire him’ at Marcus, who rolled his eyes and murmured an amused ‘Smartass’ under his breath.

This was a little game of theirs. Sherlock was always proving how inept Marcus’ kids were, and Marcus was always trying to find the kid who could have outsmarted Sherlock.

“Okay Jep, stop turning the wheels of your poor brain, I can see steam coming from your ears, kiddo.”

Jep blushed, and started rummaging in his backpack. “Here,” he muttered, handing Sherlock a phial made of thick, apparently expensive glass.

“Fancy,” Sherlock commented, pocketing the crystal clear liquid and taking out his money.

“Business’ been going pretty well,” Marcus replied. Sherlock stretched his hand out, and Marcus, instead of taking the money, grabbed it in an iron grip.

Sherlock frowned up at the man.

“Not thanks to you, though,” Marcus said, slowly. “Should I hope you’re finally getting clean, Mr. Scottie?”

Sherlock freed himself from the hold, scowling at Marcus. “None of your business.”

Marcus beamed at him. “Oh, you are, you are! Who’s the lucky girl?”

Sherlock sighed, knowing that it was useless hiding anything from him. Moreover, the man had been nagging him to find a good girl and settle down and stop using since forever, telling him how he was throwing his life away. Marcus had a soft spot for clever people. He had no regrets selling drugs to dumb kids and rich assholes, but intelligent people, oh! Sherlock knew how much it broke Marcus’ heart seeing beautiful minds reduced to begging lumps.

“His name’s John,” Sherlock eventually said, and laughed at Marcus flustered expression.

“Oh God, Mr. Scottie! I’m sorry, I had never meant to assume, I mean, you had never stricken me as the type who- not that there is a _type_ , but you know how it is-”

Sherlock decided to put an end to Marcus’ sufferings, and he lifted a hand to stop his rambling.

“It’s fine, Marcus.”

Marcus sighed, relieved. “Well, he’s a lucky fellah.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and lowered his gaze. Of all the adjectives Sherlock could have used to describe John Watson (funny, clever, brave, compassionate, stubborn, athletic, focused, passionate, caring, resourceful, kind, patient and so many more), lucky wasn’t amongst them. Especially not lucky to have found Sherlock. Quite the contrary, to be honest.

“Oh, Mr. Scottie,” Marcus whispered, “He doesn’t know, does he?”

Sherlock almost turned and bid good bye. Almost.

But he had no one to talk about his addiction with. And Marcus was willing. Before he could change his mind, Sherlock crossed his arms and spoke.

“His father is a junkie. And an alcoholic. And he has to take care of six younger siblings.”

Marcus said nothing, but waved his hand in Jep’s direction, who huffed and left.

“He… He has no problem with drinking. But the drugs… One night two mates of his brought some pot and he didn’t even have a toke.”

“What’s your plan?” Marcus asked, and Sherlock almost smiled. The guy always knew the right thing to say. He guessed Sherlock already had a plan to get out of this situation, and was asking him what this plan was, before giving any advice.

“I’m watering down my cocaine, every time a little more. It’s a slow process, and sometimes it doesn’t work and I have to take a double shot. But the effects are reduced and the withdrawal symptoms are barely noticeable, so it’s fine.”

Marcus bit down on his lip, clearly pondering on what to say.

“Is telling him out of question?”

Sherlock shook his head. “He already has to take care six kids, and a crazy father, I can’t add up to his burden. I’m trying to help, I can’t make it worse. He’d either try to help or dump me. Both options are unthinkable.”

Marcus sighed deeply. “This is a shit situation.”

Sherlock let out a breathy laugh “You can say it.”

“I can help you. I can dilute your doses myself, so I can monitor you and you can’t cheat.”

“Why would you?”

Marcus seemed taken aback. “Because I care, Mr. Scottie.”

Sherlock froze.

This wasn’t his life.

He had always been so fucking _unlovable_ , so desperately _unwanted_. No one, outside of his family, had ever cared about him one bit.

And now he was surrounded with people who cared, and wanted to help him.

Molly, the Watsons, Irene and Janine, Marcus. John.

He didn’t deserve this.

“Thank you, Marcus,” Sherlock murmured, swallowing around something painful.

“Just tell me your current dosage and I’ll work out a plan, alright?” Marcus said softly, and Sherlock nodded.

Then he left, before Marcus could see the broken expression on his face.

 

* * *

 

John came back from the motel feeling raw and exhausted. He didn’t know if he’d rather yell and break everything around him or cry until he had no tears anymore.

He sighed, jostling Jane on his hip and climbing up the stairs.

It was weird, coming back from work and not finding Will around, cooking lunch or playing Mario Kart. John shook that thought away.

He was so bloody mad at William.

He had coaxed and insisted until John had relented, forcing him to spend a night out and what happened?

That they were couch-less now. Bloody fantastic.

John wasn’t being fair, he thought as he lowered Jane on his bed.

He took off his uniform, and wore his house clothes. He wasn’t being fair at all.

John could have said no. But he had gone to the bloody Savoy.

And everything had fallen to pieces.

One night. One fucking night off. Since he was bloody born, he had spent _one_ night away from his family.

And he got punished for this. Time and time again, it proved that John wasn’t destined to happiness.

He laughed bitterly, throwing himself on the bed beside Jane.

“I’m not destined to happiness,” he said in a funny voice, tickling Jane’s tummy, and the child laughed happily.

“Your brother is pathetic, Jane,” he continued, feeling like an idiot just for having thought the previous sentence.

“You’re amazing,” Will’s voice murmured from the doorframe, and John turned in a quick movement, his heart beating fast for the surprise.

John just scowled at him and turned to Jane again. “Need to change your nappy, Princess?”

John listened to William’s step as he got closer to the bed, and felt the mattress dip when he sat down.

He didn’t look at him, but got up and took a clean nappy for Jane. Then, he sat down again and started to work on Jane’s onesie.

“You’re the bravest, and kindest, and wisest person I’ve ever met,” Will whispered, and John set his jaw. He kept ignoring him.

“John, you deserve everything, and what happened this morning is not your fault.”

John pinched his eyes shut. “Yes, it is. If I had been here, I would have stopped Joe before he ruined the couch irreparably.”

“It’s nothing we can’t fix. We’ll buy a better one.”

John laughed, balling up Jane’s used nappy and opening a new box of baby wipes.

“With what money?”

“Mine,” Will replied readily, and John shook his head.

“No.”

“Why not, John? It’s not even a matter of stubbornness at this point, it’s just stupid!”

John finished up the last button on Jane’s onesie and turned to glare at William.

“Fuck off.”

“I won’t until you tell me why the bloody hell you won’t accept any of my money.”

John shrugged. “Because.”

William growled, throwing his hands in the air. “Out with it!”

John was really getting mad now. He got up and started pacing the room, running his hands through his hair.

“Many reasons.”

“Well, I have all day, let’s hear them.”

John huffed, and slammed his fist on the drawer. Both William and Jane startled, and John took a calming breath.

“Okay then,” he hissed. “First off, we are not a charity case.”

“Oh, just stop here!” William yelled, standing up to face John. “When have I ever treated you like a charity case? This is not fair.”

John pushed William away, “So what then, will you buy us a couch and when you’re tired of this all you’ll come and take it back? Or will you leave it as a pitiful goodbye gift to your ex ghetto boyfriend?”

William gaped at him.

The room was suddenly too silent, the only sound audible was Jane, gargling softly as she played with John’s uniform.

“You think I’m gonna leave?” William eventually asked, his voice so tiny and broken that John felt a pang of guilt hit him.

“Everyone leaves,” he said, and the sentence he had uttered so many times before suddenly sounded hollow, false.

“Not me,” William whispered, taking a step closer. John shook his head. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

God, he sounded so weak, so stupid, so clingy. He cringed, hating himself for displaying so much vulnerability to a man who would have never stayed.

“John, John please look at me.”

William was so close to him his smell was intoxicating, and his hands had found their way on John’s shoulders.

John looked up from the floor and into William’s eyes, at once green, blue and grey, all blend together in a mesmerizing shade.

“I am going to say something I have never, _ever_ said to any other human being before, never,” William said calmly, and then took a deep breath. John waited, his stomach tightened into knots, his heart hammering against his ribcage. 

“I love you, John Watson.”

The world stopped.

Five words.

Only five words.

They changed everything.

John couldn’t wrap his head around them. No, not the words themselves, but the tone. They had been spoken with such bare and raw _honesty_ , with such solid _certainty_ , that John almost believed them.

John started crying. God, he hadn’t cried in so many years, how pathetic was he?

He tried to stop, and opened his mouth to take a lungful of much needed air.

“You can’t leave after this,” he sobbed and fuck fuck _fuck_ , he hadn’t planned on saying that.

William hugged him tightly, and John wrapped his arms around him, clinging to him, hiding his face in his shoulder.

He was showing so much, _too_ much.

When William would eventually leave, he would have taken with him a big part of John’s heart.

And it was okay, John thought.

As long as Will kept holding him, it would have been okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Sherlock has let the cat out of the proverbial bag. So much for wanting to wait to tell John he loved him, hmm? Why are my children so problematic, *sigh*
> 
> I AM FALLING ASLEEP!! 
> 
> I will never thank you enough for every hit and kudos and bookmark! And especially your comments. Receiving one always brightens my days. 
> 
> See you next time lovelies! :) xx


	6. Mothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry about the delay. I got sick and then got better and then got sick again and I had terrible headaches all the time, it was awful. Moreover this chapter is a literal monster, it's 10k lmao  
> It's even shorter than I'd planned, since I had to cut it, but this means that the chapter ends with a cliffhanger. So if you don't like cliffhangers you might want to wait. 
> 
> I think it would be best for me if I set some sort of deadline, so I promise I will try to update every two weeks :)
> 
> A huge _thank you_ goes to [mamf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mafm/pseuds/mafm) who beta'd this chapter! Thank you so much, really :) <3 
> 
> Well, enjoy this 10k! ;)

The walls of his mind palace were shaking; this was a catastrophe.

He had told John, told him that he loved him. That wasn’t supposed to have happened. That was _so_ not supposed to have happened.

He had planned on telling him, one day, after John knew the truth about him. Only then Sherlock would have been sure that his confession was being placed in safe hands.

Now, since he was a bloody idiot and had told John those three (only apparently) innocent words, he knew that his heart was going to be broken. Because, when John eventually found out the truth, he would take Sherlock’s confession and crush it under his feet. Despite everything, Sherlock smiled bitterly. He had always been good at ruining things.

But then, John had looked so hopeful and stunned when Sherlock had told him. That should be worth something, right? John had looked shocked, like he wasn’t expecting Sherlock to love him, and Sherlock deemed it _unacceptable_  for John Watson to think, if only for one second, that he wasn’t loved. In the end, perhaps, Sherlock’s broken heart would have been worth John’s knowledge that he was loved.

Sherlock ran his hand through his hair, trying not to wake John, nor Jane. The man was knackered, and Sherlock had promised him to look after the kids when they came home from school, while John took a nap with Jane.

Sherlock lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying to tidy up his mind palace, keeping an eye on John and Jane and an ear to the door, in case the kids came back.

Sherlock replayed the crucial moment in his head for what felt like the thousandth time.

_“I love you, John Watson.”_

He replayed John’s expression, of shock and astonishment and yes, there – he didn’t believe Sherlock.

Suddenly, it was all crystal clear. It didn’t matter one bit that Sherlock was going to end up rejected and hurt, what really mattered was that John knew that Sherlock loved him. Sherlock would have spent every day reminding him, he decided. Even if John would never say it back.

It was fine.

Then he replayed the moments after, when John had cried and told him he couldn’t leave, not now. Sherlock had to admit, when John’s eyes had filled with tears, he had been scared. John was so fucking stoic, Sherlock would have never expected to see him sob after a love confession.

And yet John had cried against Sherlock’s chest, soaking his shirt, clinging to him like a scared little child.

And Sherlock had never felt more flooded with love than in that moment. It was scary, how much he loved that blonde boy anchored to his chest, and it was powerful. He had felt a dizzying warmth spread from his stomach to his other limbs, making his heart beat faster and his breathing hitch.

It was magic.

So, all in all, Sherlock decided, it hadn’t been such a bad idea to tell John. It would have been bad in a few months but right now, with John sleeping contently, snuggled up in his side, Sherlock was happy. It wouldn’t last, but it was enough for now.

Right then, someone knocked on the door downstairs.

Sherlock frowned. Weird.

John always left the door unlocked, and everyone who knew him was aware of it, and barged in without so much as a ‘hello’. Who could it be, then?

Perhaps the inspector Joe had been so worried about that morning? Sherlock sat up and headed for the door. Except… Shouldn’t he tell John, let him deal with it?

With a pained sigh (Sherlock really didn’t want to wake John up, the man was exhausted), he approached the bed and shook John’s shoulder.

“John,” he called softly, and an eye cracked open.

“ ’severythingkay?” he mumbled, his eyes closed again.

“Yes, it’s just-” another series of knocks, harder and more impatient this time, interrupted Sherlock.

“I think that inspector Joe was so worried about is here,” Sherlock finished, and John groaned, before lifting his head from the pillow.

“Shit, can’t a guy have a fucking break,” he grumbled, getting up slowly, so not to wake Jane. When she felt the cold absence of John’s body though, the baby let out an unhappy wail, making John sigh and huff a humourless laugh.

“Perfect,” he said, picking Jane up and exiting the door, making soothing, shushing sounds to calm Jane down.

Sherlock followed him downstairs, where someone was now rapping relentlessly on the door.

“Yeah, yeah, got it, I’m coming,” John yelled, and the knocking stopped.

John opened the door and froze. Literally froze.

Sherlock watched with worry as John’s face lost its natural hue, turning his cheek white as a sheet. His mouth opened and closed a few times, his muscles tense.

Sherlock approached him, for his sight of the person in the doorway was blocked. He stopped just beside John and observed the two women in front of him.

One of them had long, black hair, her skin a sweet, caramel shade, and she was regarding Jane with hungry, enamoured eyes. The other woman was short, and had shoulder length blonde hair and dark blue eyes. John’s eyes, Sherlock noticed with horror.

“Margaret,” John finally whispered, his lower lip trembling.

The blonde woman’s eyes filled with tears. “My John,” she murmured, and started sobbing (quite dramatically, Sherlock had to admit, so much so that it almost seemed fake).

John didn’t try to reach out and comfort her. He took a step back, squaring his shoulder.

“What are you doing here?” He demanded, clutching Jane closer to his chest, narrowing his gaze on the woman who had come with his mother. “And who the fuck is she?”

 

* * *

 

Susan called Harry, but still she didn’t answer. Dammit, she thought.

They had to go and pick the kids up from school and take them home, and Harry was still nowhere to be found. A shag couldn’t take that long, surely.

And why the fuck had Clara Crenevich chosen to get married on a school day was beyond Susan. She needed Harry on school days. Couldn’t the selfish asshole get married on the weekend, like normal people?

Susan called again, and the call again went straight to the voicemail. Susan ended it and decided to go get the kids on her own, and only then she would kill her sister with her bare hands.

It wasn’t like there was anything to worry about, Susan thought, checking her phone one last time to see if Harry had called back. Unless there was free bar at the reception. Shit. Better if she went and got Harry, before she did something foolish.

Miffed, Susan started walking towards Casper and Rosie’s school.

All the kids were already out, and she had to ring to be let in.

Inside, sitting on a bench outside a classroom, Rosie was babbling some nonsense at Casper, who nodded absent-mindedly to whatever insanity she was talking about.

“Hey chipmunks,” Sue grinned, and Rosie flung herself at her.

“Sue! I told Casper there had to be a reason for you not to be here, and then I told him I knew you were coming anyway, but then I was scared that maybe you couldn’t come and I asked the teacher if she could let us out but she said no because we are small, and I said _excuse me_ , my brother Gabe is small, and Jane is even tinier, and they can’t go around, but Casper and I can, we aren’t as big as you and Harry and John are, but we can walk without holding someone’s hand. Where’s Harry?”

Susan took a deep breath, since Rosie had apparently forgotten to inhale oxygen while talking. How the hell did she do that?

“Casper, come here a sec,” Susan said, crouching to be at eye level with her siblings.

When they were both in front her, staring at her with expectant eyes, she spoke.

“Listen, I’m afraid I will have to go get Harry, because your sister can be a bit dumb sometimes. Can you go and pick Gabe up?”

Rosie nodded vigorously, but Casper frowned.

“We are just ten and eight,” he pointed out. “We are gonna need a permission to get Gabe.”

Susan mentally kicked herself. Idiot! She rummaged through her backpack until she found a blank piece of paper and a pen.

“Here,” she said, handing Casper the crumbled piece of paper, on which there was just written, ‘ _I, Susan Watson, delegate my siblings, Casper and Rosie Watson, to accompany Gabe Watson home. Regards, Susan Watson._ ’

He eyed it dubiously, but then shrugged and pocketed it.

Susan exited in a hurry, wanting to avoid at all costs the reproaches of Casper and Rosie’s teachers, who were staring at her with twin disapproving looks.

As soon as they were out, she kissed their cheeks and headed towards where she knew Clara had her wedding reception. Cody had told her a few weeks before.

Shit, Susan hadn’t called him back. But what could she have said? “Hey Cody, sorry but I’m afraid I’m in love with my best friend, who thinks I’m just a shag for when we are bored. Maybe in a few years we could date?”

Susan grimaced, burrowing her face in her scarf, hating the cold wind of November chilling her to the bone. God, boys were such a pain.

She finally got to the gym that was sometimes rented for special occasions to the people of the neighbourhood, and strode in.

The inside was incredibly sad. Sad decorations hanging from the walls, sad food on sad tables covered in sad tablecloths, sad coloured lights shining on the sad, dusty floor, sad music playing lamely and sad, drunk people dancing to it.

Susan turned her head left and right, looking for Harry. The place wasn’t crowded enough for Susan to have any troubles finding Harry, leaning heavily against a wall, a bottle of vodka in her hand. She was glaring at the dance floor, where Susan could see the former Clara Crenevich, dancing with her groom. _Ouch_ , thought Susan.

For a moment, she had foolishly hoped that Harry might have managed to knock some sense into Clara’s head. Only for a fleeting, infinitesimal moment, she had hoped her sister wouldn’t end up heartbroken.

She quickly approached her, and gently took the bottle from her hands. “Hey,” she said, but Harry looked like she was in a whole another world, her mind focused on Clara and Clara only.

“Harry,” Susan called, shaking her shoulder lightly, and this time Harry did look up. Her eyes scared Susan. They were empty.

“She did it,” Harry murmured, her voice hollow, completely and terrifyingly hollow. “Right in front of my eyes.”

“C’mon, let’s go home,” Susan said, winding her arm around Harry’s waist, supporting her weight.

“Hey, Watson,” Cody called and _fuck_ , Susan couldn’t deal with him, not now. She looked up at him, shaggy black hair and wide smile, his deep, brown eyes glinting in the dimly lit local.

“Hey, Cody,” Susan replied with a fake smile, and kept walking towards the exit, dragging Harry with her.

“You didn’t answer my texts,” Cody continued, apparently unaware that Susan was dealing with a major crisis here and it was a miracle that her sister hadn’t exploded yet, ta very much.

“I’ve been busy,” she huffed, trying make Harry react in any way. The girl was a fucking puppet, limp in her arms.

“Shagging Keith Hudson, you mean?”

Susan stilled. How did he know?

“We’re just good friends,” she said, and her answer gained a sneer from Harry.

“Just good _friends_ ,” she slurred, and dammit, Susan preferred her catatonic.

“She means they fuck but j’st as frieeends,” Harry continued, ignoring Susan’s pointed looks.

Susan watched as Cody’s features hardened, and he shot her sister a murderous glare.

“So it’s true, then?” He laughed bitterly, “And I thought it was just a stab in the dark, but no, you actually are.”

Susan narrowed her gaze. “It’s not like it’s any of your business.”

Cody huffed, affronted. “We were _dating_ , Sue, actually _dating_.”

Susan shook her head, not at all equipped to handle an upset Cody and a drunk and heartbroken Harry at the same time.

“Listen, I’ll call you later, let me deal with Harry before she pukes on the floor and ruins your sister’s wedding.”

Cody shoved his hands in his pockets, looking like a little child who had been denied another piece of cake. “You won’t call me, though.”

Susan gritted her teeth, Harry’s weight almost unbearable as she leaned on her side, the lame music beating dully in her ears.

“Then see you tomorrow at lunch break, okay? Come and find me, but _please_ , let me take Harry home.”

Cody looked at Harry, saw her slightly green face and lost eyes and (thank God) nodded.

“See you tomorrow then,” he said, and they had just started to walk away when Harry jerked in Susan’s hold and grabbed her shoulders, suddenly lucid.

“It’s not fair!” She yelled, and some people around them (including Cody) stared in shock at the two sisters.

“Harry, calm down, I’m taking you hom-”

Harry let out an actual _screech_ and shook Susan’s shoulders violently. “How dare you tell me to calm _down_ ,” she hissed, and her voice sounded dangerous.

“You try and sit on your arse while the person you love-” she cut herself off, sucking in a hurt breath. “Oh, excuse me,” she exclaimed, louder, “The girl you’ve been _fucking_ gets married to someone else.”

Susan didn’t even have to glance at Cody’s face to know he looked horrified, she just placed her hands on Harry’s back and shoved her out of the gym, despite Harry’s struggles to wriggle out of her hold.

“What the fuck, Harry,” Susan growled when they were out. The freezing weather seemed to sober Harry up a little, because she stopped fussing and calmed down.

“Sorry,” she said, and Susan pitied her, with her eyes full of tears and her broken voice.

“Oh, Harry,” she whispered, before cradling her younger sister in her arms, hugging her tightly, hoping she could take all her pain, all her grief, and make it into something better.

Harry didn’t cry, she just let Susan hug her, limp as a doll.

Susan drew back, smoothing Harry’s short hair back. “Did you see the whole thing?”

Harry nodded, lowering her eyes to the ground.

“I got here to discover that she was waiting for me, had told everyone I was her maid of honour, and that was why they couldn’t start until I got here. She said she wanted to do this with me at her side, a sort of goodbye or some other shit.”

Susan cringed. That was awful.

“And I told her not to do it, that we had a chance, that she could come home with me, but she wouldn’t hear about it, said I was just a shag, that she isn’t gay. She just kissed me and then went in.”

Susan shook her head. “What a cunt,” she commented and Harry let out a wet laugh.

“Indeed,” she agreed, rubbing her hand under her nose. “Why the fuck did I get a septum piercing anyway,” she grumbled, crossing her eyes to look at the golden, shiny thing hanging from her nose.

Susan smiled, “I have no fucking clue, perhaps to look gayer than you already look?”

Harry laughed again, and despite the awful weather, Susan felt the cold slowly melting away the more she laughed.

She suddenly stopped, bringing a hand up to her forehead, wincing. “My head, God I’m so pissed up.”

Susan shook her head at her in disapproval. “A whole bottle of bloody vodka Harry, seriously.”

Harry shrugged. “Thank God you didn’t witness the three shots and bottle of beer prior to that.”

Susan playfully smacked the back of her neck, “Idiot.”

Harry smiled at her and Susan smiled back. “Let’s go home now, shall we?”

Harry nodded and clutched on to her hand. Susan squeezed back and didn’t let go all the way home.

 

* * *

 

John’s stomach had dropped long ago, and he felt like he was walking on the edge of a gaping hole, ready swallow him whole. It made him feel dizzy, and a thousand miles away from everything that was happening in his living room in that moment.

He watched as if in a movie as Margaret’s new girlfriend played with Jane on the rug, while Margaret was kneeling in front of Casper and Rosie, who were staring at her wide-eyed from where they sat on the floor, tears running down their cheeks.

Gabe was hiding behind William’s legs, and William was absent-mindedly carding his fingers through his golden curls, watching John with a worried look as he did.

John couldn’t breathe.

And where the fuck were Harry and Susan?

Right on cue the front door swung open, and John looked up to see Susan stumbling inside, dragging Harry along. John set his jaw.

Harry was drunk. At five in the afternoon.

Both girls froze right where they stood, taking in the scene in front them with wide eyes.

“Harriet, Susan,” Margaret choked out, tears spilling copiously, leaving twin paths on her cheeks.

Harry ran to the bathroom in the kitchen, while Susan looked at John with a lost expression.

The silence in the flat was deafening, sick, suffocating. Then, Harry started retching, and John sighed. He cocked an eyebrow in Susan’s direction.

She pursed her lips. “She went to Clara’s wedding,” she said, in lieu of an explanation, and of course, _of course_ John should have remembered it was today.

Margaret got up, and approached Susan. “Don’t you recognize me?” She asked, her voice broken.

Susan looked like she was about to cry, but her expression was hard, as she glared at her mother. “I find it astonishing that _you_ would recognize _me_ ,” she bit out, and Margaret visibly flinched.

“Oi, respect your mother,” Margaret’s girlfriend snarled, and Susan gaped at her.

“John?” She called, her voice dripping with disbelief, “What the fuck is going on?”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is Margaret’s new girlfriend,” he explained, “Balavi or something.”

“Bhargavi,” the woman in question clipped, clearly miffed. “It’s an Indian name.”

John ignored her altogether. “She and Margaret are here because they want to get legally married, and they need Joe’s signature on the divorce papers.”

“And where’s Joe?”

“Pub, probably.”

“Do you want me to go and fetch him?”

John smiled weakly at Susan. “Thank you, Sue.”

She nodded tersely, sparing a filthy look in Margaret’s direction. “I mean, the sooner he gets here, the sooner _she_ leaves.”

This said, she disappeared through the door. John felt numb. He couldn’t think. At all.

He just stood there, barely noticing that Harry came back from the loo and leaned her head on his shoulder. He circled her waist with his arm in instinct, but that was all the acknowledgment he gave her.

He was distantly aware that Margaret was talking to Casper and Rosie, asking them about school and their friends, and John felt weirdly… betrayed. It should have been _him_ the one asking about their day at school, should have been him the one Rosie was rattling at, him the one Casper answered softly. Not Margaret. She had no right to come back and play mummy and then leave his children once again.

John clenched his jaw, and vaguely saw William lift his hand in his direction, to then lower it.

Minutes ticked by, and it was unreal how almost normal the scene in front of him looked. Just a mother conversing with her children, a woman playing with a baby, as if nothing was out of the norm, when in reality, everything was wrong.

John had never been happier to see Joe come home.

“Margaret,” he greeted, feigning indifference. John snorted. He knew his father still had it bad for his wife. And, John noticed with a certain surprise, so did his mother, judging by the way her eyes lingered on Joe’s a bit too long.

“W-Who’s this curry muncher,” Joe grumbled, cocking an eyebrow in Bhargavi’s direction.

“Oi!” Margaret yelled, getting up on his feet, “What the fuck, Joe.”

John sighed deeply. This was going to get ugly. His father didn’t want a divorce and would have never signed, and his mother was too stubborn to just let go. Moreover, Bhargavi looked like the aggressive type.

“William,” John called softly, and the young man was immediately at his side.

“Can you take the kids for a walk? We have some issues to discuss.”

William frowned, and looked at the small crowd in the living room. Joe and Margaret glaring at each other, Bhargavi completely absorbed by Jane, Casper and Rosie sitting on the floor with twin lost expressions, Susan breathing heavily while leaning against the opposite wall.

William nodded. “I’m gonna take Gabe, Rosie and Casper out,” he said, caressing Gabe’s curls distractedly. John smiled, relieved, before nudging Harry with his shoulder.

“Hey lightweight,” he murmured, and she let out a painful moan, hiding her face in John’s shoulder.

John shook his head at her. “C’mon, go to bed. Susan, can you take her upstairs?”

Susan jerked away from the wall, startled, so much absorbed in thought she had been. But she nodded at John, and walked up to him to gently ease Harry away and then up the stairs.

“And stay upstairs, keep an eye on her, mmh?” John called after Susan, and the girl rolled her eyes but didn’t complain.

In the meantime, William had dressed Gabe in his winter jacket, and was prompting Casper and Rosie to do the same.

“Where are we going? Because it’s very cold and dark and I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Rosie, don’t argue and go with William,” John said, and Rosie nodded, somehow still managing to look defiant.

“Who are you sending my children away with?” Margaret suddenly asked, gaping at William, who had picked Gabe up and was now holding on to Rosie’s hand with his free arm.

“I’m sending _my_ siblings away with my boyfriend, whom they know and trust, because they don’t need to be in your presence more than is strictly necessary.”

John almost didn’t notice the way William flinched at the word boyfriend, so focused on Margaret he was. But he didn’t miss the way John’s word hit William.

John knew why. Because, yes, John had said it before, but talking about himself, never William, and it wasn’t like they had ever discussed what they were to each other. They just… _were_. That was all. William had creeped his way into John’s soul and body and mind and into his family and his life, and they had never discussed such things as being “exclusive” or in a “stable relationship”. This didn’t mean that they weren’t. And they both knew it and John found it difficult, talking about this sort of stuff, _emotional_ stuff and for God’s sakes couldn’t William see that John was serious about them?

“This house is falling apart, there’s no respect,” Bhargavi mumbled, and John resisted the urge to punch her and take Jane in his arms and send all the adults away from his house.

William and John locked eyes, and John nodded, a silent, “ _Yes, you can take them out._ ”

Will’s eyes seemed to ask, “ _You sure?_ ” At which John rolled his eyes, “ _Just go._ ”

With one last glance in his direction, William fixed his hold on Gabe and walked out, Rosie gripping tightly on to his hand, Casper following in their stride.

“Now,” John exclaimed, clapping his hands together, and the three adults fixed him with a frown. “We don’t have a couch because just this morning Joe decided to have a barbecue on it. Shall we move our little meeting in the kitchen, so that we can sit?”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock opened the door of his car and told Rosie to hold Gabe tightly. He should probably buy a child seat sooner rather than later, because whenever he drove with either Jane or Gabe in the backseat, he felt bound to go deliberately slowly, terrified that he might cause their death in a disturbingly vivid series of gruesome scenarios.

Sherlock had confessed John his fears, and the man had laughed, telling him that it was normal, when you have to deal with kids you tend to imagine the worst things happening to them and to over-worry.

Still, a child seat was paramount, in Sherlock’s opinion.

He took the driver’s place and waited for Casper to join him in the passenger’s seat.

“Fasten your seatbelts, kids,” he said, and waited until he heard two clicks, Casper’s and Rosie’s.

“Rosie, are you holding Gabe tight?”

He watched in the rear-view mirror as Rosie nodded, draping both her arms around Gabe’s tiny form. Sherlock nodded and took off.

“Is there any place in particular you’d like to go?” He asked, turning the radio on and switching through the stations, looking for a song he might know.

Casper shrugged, looking out of his window with a quivering lip. Meeting his mother had affected him more deeply than it had Rosie.

“Maybe… we could go bowling?” Rosie suggested. Sherlock frowned.

“Bowling?” He asked, unsure whether the girl knew what bowling was.

Rosie only nodded, biting down on her lower lip. Sherlock smiled at her.

“Bowling it is,” he sentenced, and the little squeal of joy that Rosie emitted warmed his heart to the core.

“Thank you, Will! You know, a couple of years ago Dorothy Olson had a birthday party at a bowling centre and I couldn’t go because I had to stay home with Gabe and Susan because John had to take Casper to the hospital because he had broken his arm and Harry was on a school trip so I couldn’t really go, you see, but then everyone at school said they had lots of fun and I asked John if we could go but he said that he doesn’t have the time to take me there, and if we go all together it’s gonna be _loads_ expensive and it’s not worth it for stupid bowling, John says, but I can’t know it’s stupid until I try and play, right?”

Sherlock took a deep breath, mostly because he didn’t know how the hell Rosie hadn’t taken any since her speech started.

“I hope bowling will live up to your expectations,” he simply said, and she giggled.

He knew a nice bowling centre, not far from here, complete with bar, fast food, and arcade. He could take the kids there.

Right then, Sherlock found a Lana Del Rey song he really liked on the radio, and turned the volume up a bit. It was the remixed version of _Summertime Sadness_ , and Sherlock perfectly remembered watching John dance to it under the lights of the club, just a few minutes before a kid slipped his wallet out of his pocket.

Gabe started screaming. “Laaaa la la lalaaaaaaaaa! Eeeeeeh!”

“What’s that?” Sherlock asked amused, turning his head to look at Gabe, who was still yelling random seemingly vocal sounds.

“I am _thinding_ ,” he explained with a huge grin, then went back to his shouts.

Sherlock, who was now almost fluent in _Gabese_ asked, “Are you _singing_?”

Gabe sighed heavily, “Yeth, duh.”

Sherlock couldn’t believe that a three-year-old had just said “duh” in response to something he said. He laughed.

After a few moments, he noticed that Casper’s lip had stopped trembling, and the kid was now grinning, his head turned towards his brother, who wouldn’t shut up.

Sherlock turned the volume up.

“Daaaa laaa, da daaaaaa,” sang Gabe, completely off-key (he was probably singing another song, Sherlock was sure), while Rosie giggled madly, shaking her fist in the air in time with the music. Only then Casper let out a real laugh and started waving his arms left and right, and Sherlock was shocked to discover that right there, in a car with three mad children, he felt totally, unashamedly happy.

 

* * *

 

Rosie _loved_ bowling. Sherlock could see her having the time of her life, throwing ball after ball on the track, sliding on her polished shoes, missing every single bloody bowling pin. Casper was a little better, and managed to hit one of the pins from time to time.

Sherlock kept a close eye on them from the bar, where he was sipping on a pint of beer, while helping Gabe gulp down his glass of water without making a mess. Gabe kept babbling and wriggling about, trying to snatch the glass of beer from Sherlock’s hands or jumping to the other side of the counter, or just tickling Sherlock by shoving his tiny (but surprisingly strong) hands in Sherlock’s face.

It should have been hellish, Sherlock’s worst nightmare. But it wasn’t.

Sherlock chuckled. If someone he knew saw him in this moment, they truly wouldn’t recognize him.

The mighty Sherlock Holmes, professional Arrogant Twat, who despised every living creature who didn’t match his massive intellect, was sitting in a bowling centre with a lapful of sticky three-year-old and baby-sitting two other kids. And _enjoying_ it.

Something was nagging at the back of his mind though, and only after Gabe finally stopped fussing and started drinking from his glass with a straw, Sherlock knew what.

John had called him his boyfriend. In front of his parents and his siblings, even.

That made it official; Sherlock Holmes was John Watson’s boyfriend.

And Sherlock was torn between utter _pride_ (that someone like _him_ could ever capture the attention of someone like John) and fear. Fear, because _William Scott_ was John’s boyfriend, not Sherlock Holmes.

William Scott the car thief, William Scott who lived in the streets and was good with kids and went clubbing from time to time and didn’t do drugs.

Sherlock knew that John would have never considered him his boyfriend, had he just been Sherlock. Posh, spoiled Sherlock, who had run away from one of the best universities of the country, who got bored with how _easy_ his life had been, who was addicted to cocaine and had never had any friends nor a boyfriend, because no one had ever wanted him.

Yeah, not really a keeper.

Sooner or later though, he’d have to tell John, because living with a secret like that was becoming unbearable. Sherlock had never been prone to honesty, but the need to tell John everything was always _there_ , on the tip of his tongue, after every kiss, every touch, every lingering look, every soft word.

“Can I hang one here, please?”

Sherlock froze. It wasn’t possible. He grabbed Gabe and ran, hiding in the bathroom, spying through the glass of the porthole positioned on the door.

His mother.

His _mother_.

What the hell was this, the “meet your mother” day and no one had advised him or John?

“Doin’?” Gabe questioned, and Sherlock shushed him.

Gabe rarely took no as an answer. He opened his mouth to scream, so Sherlock covered it with his hand.

“We’re playing spies,” he explained, and that seemed to quieten Gabe, who smiled widely.

“Who we tzpyin’?”

“That lady over there,” Sherlock whispered back, still staring at his mother.

She looked like… utter _shit_ , Sherlock didn’t know how else to phrase it. Her hair, normally tied severely on her head or in a stylish hairstyle, was now brought back in a loose, messy bun. It seemed like she had lost weight, her cheeks hollow, her eyes sad, and hopeless.

She looked like she had lost a son.

Sherlock suddenly felt guilt hit him in the solar plexus, so hard that he could barely breathe.

When he had left, he hadn’t thought much about his family. He’d thought that he never wanted to get into rehab again, that Mycroft was a fat, meddling asshole and that his parents couldn’t possibly understand him. The loneliness and the boredom and the teasing and the bullying. He had thought that he needed a fix, as soon as possible, and that if Victor wasn’t willing, well, he’d find his ways. Sherlock had thought his parents would have looked for him for a few days, weeks at maximum, and then they’d give up, shrugging. “ _It’s Sherlock, it was to be expected_.” This was what his parents said in Sherlock’s mind palace.

But it had been seven months (almost eight, in fairness) and his mother was still going around hanging those fliers with a message for Sherlock on them. Sherlock had seen them around, about a week after his disappearance, and so he recognized it when his mother showed one to the bartender.

Sherlock still remembered every word written on those fliers he had seen in Regents Park.

“ _Sherlock, I know that putting your face on one of these things would just make you cringe and run as fast as you can even farther away than you already are. So I’m just writing you a message. Please come home. We miss you. We can fix everything and we love you. Please, Sherlock, come home._ ”

Sherlock had almost cried tears of rage the first time he’d read it. He had been high, then, and had ripped the paper apart with the joy and satisfaction that comes only from the destruction of the object of one’s ire.

He hadn’t believed those words his family had written. He had thought they were just worried about the family name, about their precious reputation.

But now, as Sherlock looked at his mother carefully hanging her note on the bar’s bulletin board, he realized how fucking _wrong_ he had been.

And he didn’t know what mysterious force pushed him to do it, but he squared the shoulders and opened the bathroom door.

He set Gabe down and held his hand tightly in his, searching for comfort.

Because Margaret Watson was an awful mother and deserved nothing, and yet her children were always where she had left them. Margaret Watson didn’t spend sleepless nights wondering how her children were doing, where they were. She wasn’t worried about them.

Violet Holmes was. She bore the signs of a stress that almost looked like grief, and she was his mum. She had always taken care of Sherlock, always. And she didn’t deserve this, Sherlock thought.

He had escaped to be more independent, to live like a “real person”, without the money and the ease of his class. He wanted to prove that he could do it on his own, that he wasn’t a spoiled brat, that he was _better_ than they thought he was.

And yet, by escaping, he had just proven how fucking selfish and stupid and yes, _spoiled_ he was.

Sherlock took a step forward.

“Mummy,” he called softly.

Violet Holmes’ back stiffened and her eyes filled with tears.

Slowly, as though she thought her hopes would be crushed if she saw the source of the voice, she turned, and the stack of fliers fell on the floor as her eyes set on Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” she murmured, her voice so broken that Sherlock physically _ached_ when he heard it. But not only for the tone. It was also because she had spoken his name, his _real_ name, and hadn’t heard it in months.

Then, before he knew it, she was wrapping her arms around him, squeezing tight, sobbing on his shoulder.

To be completely honest, Sherlock had expected fury to be his mother’s first reaction, and the utter relief the woman was showing was torture. Because it made Sherlock feel so guilty he could barely handle it.

He held her tightly with his free arm and let himself drown in her comforting smell.

It tasted like the lazy afternoons they spent together in the house library, and of endless picnics in their garden, with soft and warm and delicious apple pies. It tasted like wilted flowers pressed in between old books pages and hot scalding tea and cold ice on a bruise.

It tasted like home.

 

* * *

 

John sat at the kitchen table, Joe at his right and Jane in his lap. In front of him, Bhargavi and Margaret stared at him as he tried to convince Joe to sign the goddamn divorce papers. He just wanted Margaret away from his kids as soon as possible.

But he saw the way Margaret surreptitiously glanced at Joe and frankly, John just wanted to puke. His parents were drawn to each other like magnets, their destructive, selfish, addictive personalities a perfect match.

At some point in the conversation, Margaret and Joe had started to yell.

“You ruined me!” Margaret yelled, waving an accusing finger under Joe’s nose.

“What? How the fuck have I ruined you, tell me.”

“You forced me to run away from my kids again and again, beating me!”

“Bullshit! I’ve never hit ya.”

“You did, you bastard! That time we did PCP, you smacked me face.”

“You bitch, you hit me first! You threw a pan at me!”

And on and on they went, Bhargavi rubbing soothing circles on Margaret’s back, John just wishing he could get this over with as quickly as possible.

“I won’t let you marry a dyke!”

“How dare you, Joe, how fucking dare you. I do what I goddamn please, and me and me girlfriend are gonna get married even if I’ll have to make you sign those papers holding you down.”

John watched, mildly worried (and partly horrified), as Joe and Margaret leaned across the table, their faces closer and closer the more they fought.

If they kissed, John was ready to take the kids and flee the country.

John suddenly realised he couldn’t do this without William. He always had, always dealt with those rotten parents of his on his own, but he didn’t want to right now.

He longed for William’s soothing presence, his quick brains and reassuring hand in his. He wanted Will there. Period.

He took his phone out of his pocket, careful not to jostle Jane too much, since the baby was really quiet, lost in the contemplation of her hand.

 

(Thursday, 08:21pm)

_Please, can you come home? Need you._

 

Then he lowered the phone and leaned his head on his palm, staring at his parents screaming at each other, like usual.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock sat on a chair with Gabe in his lap, as the kid munched with gusto on a sandwich Sherlock had bought him. His mother sat in front of them, staring at him with eyes full of awe at him, like she couldn’t quite believe he was there.

She had hugged him for what felt like hours, before Gabe had tugged on Sherlock’s sleeve, and asked, “Who are you?” staring up at Violet Holmes with his wide, dark grey/green eyes.

Violet had looked bewildered, and even more so when Sherlock had shrugged and said “My boyfriend’s brother.”

Now they sat a table that looked on the bowling tracks, so that Sherlock could still keep an eye on Casper and Rosie.

They had talked. A lot. Violet had held his hands in an iron grip, and Sherlock had let her. She had told him how much she loved him, of how his father waited for him on the porch every day, of how Mycroft kept looking for him and so did Greg. She told him that the two were getting married, in April.

Then she had asked him oh so many questions, and Sherlock had looked down and avoided her eyes. He couldn’t lie in her face, tell her he was off the drugs.

“Sherlock,” she said, her voice so gentle that it touched something in Sherlock’s heart.

He raised his head and met her eyes, the same shade of his own, and decided to go for the a partial truth.

“It wasn’t good at the beginning but… I’m happy now.”

His mother’s eyes filled with tears, and she pursed her lips. “But why did you run, love?”

Neither this time, Sherlock could bring himself to lie. “I was wrong. I was selfish and a coward and I was wrong. And I apologize.”

She sucked in a sharp breath, looking dazed.

They studied each other for long seconds, before Gabe started smashing the sandwich Sherlock had just bought him on the table, seemingly delighted by this new game he had invented.

“Hey, no no no,” Sherlock murmured, taking the tortured remains of the sandwich in his hand. “If you’re not hungry anymore you say it and someone else can eat your leftovers. Now we have to throw this away. Does that seem fair to you?”

Gabe seemed to ponder on this, but then he climbed off Sherlock’s lap and grinned at him.

“Where do you want to go, mmh?” Sherlock questioned, grabbing a napkin and cleaning Gabe’s face, ignoring the child’s grimaces.

“I wanna pway with Rwose and, and Catzpeh!” He yelled, and Sherlock smiled at him.

He ruffled his curls, “Go then.”

Gabe ran away, and Sherlock kept a close eye on him until he arrived at Rosie and Casper’s track, and Casper took him by the hand, waving the other at Sherlock.

Sherlock waved back, and mouthed, “Don’t lose him,” at which Casper giggled, before turning to show Gabe how Rosie threw a pink ball on the wooden floor.

When Sherlock turned back to his mother, the dazed expression had been replaced by a softer one.

“You have grown so much,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

Sherlock frowned at her, and she smiled sweetly. “You have,” she repeated.

He shrugged, defiant just for old time’s sakes. “How so?” He grumbled, pretending to be absorbed in the contemplation of his fingernails.

“Well, first of all, this is the first time I have ever heard you admitting you were wrong. Or apologize without being prompted to do so.”

Sherlock shrugged again, feeling his cheeks growing warm. Then his mother was nudging his chin up, gently, so that their eyes could meet. “You’re good with those kids.”

Sherlock shook his head, and let out an unamused laugh. “John’s much better at this than I am.”

His mother perked up with interest at the name. “John? Is that your boyfriend? How old is he? What does he do? Where does he live? Do you have a picture?”

Sherlock smiled at her, and he was surprised to discover he wasn’t annoyed at her for asking so many questions. A few months ago he might have been, but now he knew she was just worried, and he found that answering all her queries could actually be _relieving_. He _wanted_ to talk about John with her, he wanted it desperately.

“Yep, that’s the one. He’s nineteen like me, although he was born in December, so he’s _legally_ one year older. And he… he’s special, mum. And I honestly don’t know what the hell he sees in me.”

Sherlock noticed only then that his mother had started crying. “…Why are you crying?” He asked, baffled, producing a napkin from his pocket.

She took it with a watery smile, wiping the tears away. “I… Don’t take this the wrong way, but I was scared you’d never find someone.”

“So was I,” Sherlock whispered, and she took his hand in hers.

“I love you so much, Sherlock,” she said, and before he could think better of it, Sherlock got up and tugged his mother towards him, clinging to her like he used to when he was only a kid.

He didn’t know how long they stayed in that awkward position, Sherlock half crouched in front of his mum’s chair, holding her to him, but long enough for Rosie to come and tap on his shoulder.

“Yes?” He queried, turning to look at her.

“Two things. One, I’m hungry and Casper is hungry too because his tummy made a funny noise and he said it’s nothing but it’s obvious he wants food. Two, who is this lady because if you are cheating on my brother I will kick you in the shin like I did with Sammy Roberts last year and he cried a lot so you don’t want that.”

Sherlock laughed, fishing his wallet out of his trousers pocket. “I’m not cheating on John, Rosie. This is my mother.”

Rosie’s mouth shaped a round, pink ‘o’, and she stuck her hand out. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Mum of William,” she said, and Sherlock flinched.

He jerked his head towards his mother, who was frowning at Rosie. She looked up at him questioningly, and he implored her with his eyes to please just go along with it.

Violet Holmes was nothing if not a good actress. Years and years feigning politeness with the most obnoxious members of the British upper class had taught her well.

She smiled brightly at Rosie, shaking her hand with enthusiasm.

“Most pleased to meet you, Rosie, is it?”

Rosie nodded. “Now that I look at your face from this close I see that you look like William a lot. You have the same eyes, that’s sooo weird! Sorry I thought you were a cheater, Mrs. Mum of William, but William never talks about his family, and I asked John why once, and he said that he didn’t know, and that if William didn’t want to talk about it then he had his reasons and we should respect his _privalasy_.”

“Privacy,” Sherlock corrected absent-mindedly, but his head was spinning. So _that_ was why John had never asked him about his family. Or why a nineteen-year-old boy was so quick to move in with his boyfriend. Why he was stealing cars for a living.

Sherlock’s mother seemed overwhelmed by the flood of information, so Sherlock shoved some money in Rosie’s hand and waved her towards the Burger King beside the arcade. “Tell Casper you can take whatever you want.”

Rosie grinned, before hugging Sherlock’s leg. “You’re the bestest!” She exclaimed gaily, and then ran off in Casper and Gabe’s direction.

“Gabe has already eaten!” Sherlock yelled after her, then sighed when she ignored him.

“William? I thought you hated the name,” his mother broke the silence, tilting her head to the side.

Sherlock sat back down, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, but desperate times call for drastic measures, right?”

She shot him a dark look and he heaved a deep breath.

“Listen, I was just trying to avoid Mycroft.”

“You went to great lengths to avoid us all, it seems.” His mother’s voice was icy, and Sherlock wasn’t even surprised. Anger was bound to come out at some point. It was astonishing that it was bubbling up just now. Sherlock had expected a scene from the beginning.

“I don’t have a real explanation for what I did, and I’ve already apologized. What I can say is that I didn’t really expect you all to be _that_ worried about me, after all this tim-”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Violet interrupted him, so abruptly that he felt himself shrink under her tone, like he was bloody six again.

“You didn’t _expect_ us to be worried about you? You _disappeared_ , for _seven months_ , and that after we found out your funny habit of injecting illegal, lethal _drugs_ in your system. I’ve had nightmares in which I found you dead in an alley, a needle up your arm, and… God, you have _no idea_ of what you have put us through. And I don’t know whether to be furious at you for not caring enough to spare a thought for us or to feel guilty because we’ve never managed to show you how much we love you before it was too late.”

The words knocked the wind out of Sherlock. She was right. He had no idea.

“I’m sorry,” he tried to say, and wasn’t even ashamed when an incoherent rasp came out of his mouth, too busy as he was panicking. He had made a mess.

He had hurt his family and lied to John and all the Watsons and he was such a bloody _disaster_. He had always known that everything he touched was destined to turn to shit, but he had never known how much.

“Come home,” his mother whispered brokenly, wiping a tear away from Sherlock’s cheek. He hadn’t even noticed he’d started crying.

He shook his head. “I have a life with John now.”

“What about uni? You love Chemistry.” She was trying to convince him to go back, Sherlock knew it.

He bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. “I do.”

“Then go back to uni, you’re so clever love, you’ll find a wonderful job as a chemist. Or a detective, like you wanted to.”

“Consulting detective,” Sherlock corrected her automatically, and then his heart did a leap. He had forgotten. He had _forgotten_.

He had been so busy (first shooting up and stealing cars and feeling resentful towards everything, and then with the Watsons) that he had forgotten his dream job.

Like a flood, memories of him, only fourteen, sneakily reading gruesome criminology textbook under his desk in class, came rushing to his brain. He remembered wandering around the house with Redbeard when he was six, looking for clues to find his father’s second pair of glasses. And that time someone started stealing from the lockers at school, and Sherlock had found the culprit and made him confess in front of the headmistress. Or when he had investigated in exchange for drugs for Victor, revealing him the name of the person who kept creeping into his room to flush his cocaine (his ex-girlfriend, it had turned out, who thought the reason why she and Victor had broken up was because he was doing drugs, and not because he had grown bored of her).

Sherlock _loved_ it. He loved cracking mystery after mystery, looking for clues, seeing the pieces slot together in his brain. The idea of a ‘consulting detective’ had come to him when Lestrade had started talking to him about the occasional murder cases that the then Police Constable came across. As time passed, it became a habit for Lestrade to immediately go to Sherlock and show him the files for his cases. And when he had become Detective Sergeant, more cases started to come his way, and Sherlock had a blast, sitting with Greg in the family library, looking at picture after picture of grim crime scenes. They spent whole afternoons like that, ignoring Mycroft’s sighs and the irritating way in which he said “It’s rather obvious”. Sherlock studied Lestrade’s cases at the dinner table, eliciting his father’s amusement but his mother’s dismay. He stayed up all night, hunched over his microscope or sat on the bed, to then call Greg at four in the morning crying, “It’s the sister!”.

He felt that _that_ was what he was born to do.

And then, for a few milligrams of crystal clear liquid, he had thrown it all away.

“I… I need to think about it,” he conceded, and Violet looked a bit disappointed, but she recovered quickly.

“What about John? What does he study? Doesn’t he encourage you to study?”

He rolled his eyes, “Oh yeah, because in between his three jobs and six younger siblings John has so much free time to study.”

Violet’s eyes widened comically. “Doesn’t he have parents?”

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. “His father’s never home, his mum left for good a year ago.”

Thinking of John’s mother, Sherlock feels a spike of anxiety shoot down his back. He had left John alone with the woman, and John was emotionally shaken, what with Joe burning their couch and Sherlock’s declaration and the unexpected arrival of the woman. He should go home to him.

Violet remained silent for a few seconds, then her eyes shone with glee.

“I have a wonderful idea!” She exclaimed, and leaned forward to take Sherlock’s hands in hers.

“We have two guest rooms in our house in London, right? And Mycroft doesn’t use his anymore so that makes three spare bedrooms that John’s siblings can use. You said they are six, right? Two per bedroom, it’s perfect. Then you and John can sleep in yours, your bed is big enough for two, and in the morning you two can go to uni, while your father and I can take the kids to school and look after them in the afternoon if you need to study. It’s perfect, don’t you think?”

Sherlock was torn between rebellion (his mother always trying to organize his life, never letting him decide for himself or struggle to fix his problems for himself) and sheer gratefulness. Because that _was_ a good idea. It could work. They could be happy.

And Sherlock had found a St. Barts application form in John’s room once. He had never brought it up, but it did say something, the fact that John, almost two year and a half after finishing college, still kept it. And Sherlock could see John as a doctor. He could and it pained him endlessly that John was forced to give up his dream. It also made him feel strangely ashamed. He had the means, he could go to uni, and he had run, because he felt bored and suffocated.

John was a better person than Sherlock could ever dream to be.

“I… I don’t know. I’ll talk to John.”

Violet seemed satisfied. “We can do it together. Now I’ll come with you so you can drop the kids off and then you’ll come home.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No.”

“No?” She sputtered, a deep frown between her eyes.

“I live with John now, Mummy. And he’s in a shit situation at the moment and he doesn’t need you in full on ‘Violet Holmes mode’ to come in and upset him more than he already is. I’ll talk to him in a few days, then I’ll call you. Here,” he said, opening her purse where he knew there was always a pen, and scribbled his number on a napkin. “This is my new number, you can text me but don’t call me, at least until I’ve talked to John.”

“You’re my son, I just found you after seven months, I’m not going to let you out of my sight again for a very long time.” Her voice was hard, and Sherlock shivered. It was gonna be difficult, convincing her to let go. But he had to. He had to talk to John before he met his family.

“Mummy, please. I need to discuss this with John first, I can’t lose him.”

Perhaps it was his tone, perhaps the pleading expression or just simply the ‘please’, a word that he had rarely uttered in his childhood and teenage years, and always under threat. But Violet sighed deeply and carefully pocketed Sherlock’s number.

“I want your address. And for you to come home tomorrow to visit your father, your brother and Gregory. I won’t call and we won’t come to John’s house unannounced but you need to come tomorrow.”

It seemed fair. “I’ll text you the address tonight,” he said, “and I’ll pass by tomorrow at around ten in the morning, because John has a shift in the afternoon and I have to stay with the kids.”

Violet nodded, seemingly satisfied. She opened her mouth to say something more, but right then his mobile beeped.

Sherlock took it out and immediately cursed himself for it. His mother was in fact eyeing his iPhone 6 with a wary look on her face. Of course. How could Sherlock afford such a luxury item? It was obvious that he had more money than a runaway teenager could ever hope to make.

He ignored her, trying to be casual as he opened the text.

It was from John.

 _“Please, can you come home? Need you._ ” 

“John needs me,” he said abruptly, getting up and winding his scarf around his neck. John wasn’t prone to say stuff like “I need you”, or to display vulnerability in general. So as soon as he read the words, his body tensed, aching to be exactly where John needed him.

_“Please, can you come home?”_

Sherlock stopped half-way through wearing his coat, a sudden realization hitting him. John had said home. He didn’t say “Please can you come back?”, but “Can you come _home?_ ”

A weird sort of warmth bloomed inside Sherlock, and he found himself smiling at nothing.

“Please, don’t.”

The desperation in his mum’s voice brought him back to reality, and he struggle to focus on her figure, still sat at the table, gripping it so hard her knuckles were white.

Sherlock bit his lip and said, “Call me.”

She looked up at him, lifting a questioning eyebrow, and he smiled, trying to look reassuring.

“I want to prove you the number I gave you is real. Call me.”

She nodded and dug her phone out of her purse. When Sherlock’s mobile rang, most of the tension in her shoulders left.

“See?” Sherlock grinned, but she still looked reluctant to let go of him.

“I promise I’ll come tomorrow.”

She nodded, heaving a long sigh. Then she tilted her head, eyeing Sherlock’s phone curiously, where it still hang from his loose fingers.

“Is that John?” She questioned, and Sherlock instinctively brought his phone up, looking at his background. Then he kneeled in front of his mother and showed her the screen.

“It’s me and John at home,” he explained, and could see his mother taking in every particular of the photo. If she felt hurt by her son calling home another place, she didn’t show.

It was Irene who had taken the picture, a couple of weeks before, at Jane’s first birthday party. It showed Sherlock, grinning down at John, one arm draped across his shoulder, as the blonde smiled at the camera, holding Jane in his arms. Sherlock remembered when that night Irene had texted him the photo, adding, “Dashing blokes + baby,” and an alarming amount of emojis. John had stared at the pic for long minutes, then smiled and said, teasingly, “You look like a smitten loser.” And Sherlock had yelped in indignation, before John laughed and tackled him to the bed, kissing him into sweet oblivion.

The next day, calling himself a sentimental fool, he’d changed the background of his phone. And Sherlock pretended he didn’t notice how John’s eyes had softened at the corner when he’d seen his phone.

“He’s very handsome,” Violet’s voice came out rough, choked with emotion, giving away that that wasn’t what she had planned on saying.

“What is it?”

She shook her head, looking up at Sherlock with eyes full of tears. “Nothing, it’s just that…”

She trailed off, and he waited. When she didn’t continue he smiled, “If you want to tell me I look like crap in it go on, you won’t offend me.”

She huffed a wet laugh. “No love, you look good. That’s the thing. I have never seen you that happy, ever in your life. I’ve always been so worried about you, you know, I was scared you’d never find happiness. Not because you didn’t deserve it, but because there’s always been this dark cloud that followed you around, even on your happiest days. And even if I wished the best for you, because I love you and I know how special you are, I was still frightened. And it’s… it’s incredible to see you look at someone like that.”

Sherlock knew what the dark cloud his mother was talking about was. It was his boredom and restlessness and the feeling of being held back and the need for something _more_. And he understood her fears. He too had always thought that he was doomed to grey life. That was one of the main reasons one day he stuck a needle in his arm. Because there was no point. Because he sought bliss, and relief. From the numbness, the boredom, the hopelessness.

John had swooped in and saved Sherlock from himself. John had given him a reason to get up every day that wasn’t the cocaine hidden in the bathroom. Sure, there was still a lot to work on.

Sherlock was still addicted, and he was still moody and sometimes, even when he was with the Watsons, the dark cloud came and tarnished everything. But he was getting better, and he had never been as happy as he was when he was with John.

For the second time in only a few hours, he spoke the three dreaded words he had always avoided in his life.

“I love you, Mummy.”

When she gaped at him, stunned into silence, he leaned forward with a huge smile on his face and kissed her cheek.

“Gotta go get the kids and then get home,” (yes, still heady being able to call it home), “See you tomorrow, okay?”

She nodded, and Sherlock turned, running towards the Burger King.

 

* * *

 

“Did you all have a fun night?” He asked in the silence of the car, smiling at Rosie’s reflection in the rear-view window, who was telling him _everything_ they had done, a Burger King paper crown wobbling on her blonde hair.

She was still talking when they got home, and Sherlock took a sleepy Gabe in his arms, entering the house without looking, his eyes focused on Rosie.

That was why he didn’t notice at first that something was amiss in the living room. Then he realised what.

It was far too quiet.

John and Susan stood in the middle of the living room, hands clasped together, staring in horror at Bhargavi, their faces white as a sheet. Harry was sat on the last step of the staircase, hiding her face in her hands.

Bhargavi ignored the three of them, playing peacefully with Jane on the rug, while Margaret silently cried beside her.

Joe finished chugging the beer and then said, conversationally, “So, where do I have to sign to give you Jane?”

Rosie let out a terrified shriek, and then it was utter chaos.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the cliffhanger, but this chapter would have been like, 15k long if I finished the chapter where I wnated, and I didn't think it was a good idea lmao
> 
> Let's say that the meeting between Sherlock and his mother took a lot more space than I anticipated, it literally wrote itself! 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and for waiting :) 
> 
> See you in two weeks xx


	7. Quick Fix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! Two weeks as promised :) 
> 
> Some parts of this chapter are taken almost ad verbatim from the tv show, I linked the scenes in the end notes :)
> 
> A big, huge thank you to [mafm](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mafm/pseuds/mafm) who is super fast and super thorough and super supportive :))
> 
> Enjoy! xx

**10:11pm**

John slowly lowered a sleeping Gabe on Sherlock’s couch in Montague Street, placing on him a blanket he had found on a chair.

John didn’t turn and look at Sherlock as he sat on the sofa and played with Gabe’s hair, an unreadable expression on his face.

The air was thick, uncomfortable, and Sherlock didn’t know what to do. So he just sat at the kitchen table and stared at John, his small, tanned hands running through his brother’s curls, his thin lips pursed, his muscles tense.

Sherlock buried his face in his hands. He didn’t know how to fix this.

 

**08:59pm**

_“So, where do I have to sign to give you Jane?”_

_Rosie let out a terrified shriek, and then it was utter chaos._

Harry was yelling, still flinching a bit when she jerked her head too forcefully, but she didn’t relent. She yelled and yelled, settling on a verbal attack to her mother.

Susan’s voice was quieter, and kept repeating “She doesn’t know you, she belongs with us,” on a loop.

Casper had started crying, no, literally _bawling_ , snot and tears pooling on his upper lip, his slim frame shaken by violent sobs, and it looked like he was having a hard time breathing.

Joe kept drinking his beer, ignoring Rosie, who was punching him with all the strength she could muster, her face scrunched up with that particular type of rage that only children can feel.

Bhargavi held Jane to her chest, despite the child’s protests, while Margaret tried to reason with her daughters’ yelling.

In the midst of that frenzy, Gabe had lost every ounce of sleepiness, and was staring at his family with wide open eyes.

Sherlock turned to John, expecting him to do _something_ , but the man looked stunned, like he didn’t know how to react. He just stood there, mouth slightly agape, his chest heaving with long and deep breaths.

It was wrong. John was strong, and brave and resourceful. Amidst the chaos, he was the one fixed point that guided everyone around him towards their destination. Now he looked lost.

Sherlock decided he had to do something.

He tried to put Gabe down, but the child anchored to him like a scared little monkey, tightening his grip around his neck and wounding his legs around his middle section. Accepting that Gabe was frightened and looking for support, Sherlock strode to John, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

John startled, as if he was completely unaware of what was happening.

“John,” Sherlock simply said.

John nodded at him, catching a glimpse of Gabe, hiding his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. John lifted a hand to caress Gabe’s back, and nodded again.

With one last look at Sherlock (this time a mix of gratitude and determination and a sliver of anger in his eyes), John walked to the middle of the room and took his stance. He stood securely on both feet, hands on hips, head cocked to the side.

“Enough!” He roared. It was astonishing how every single person in the room shut up and turned to John with wide eyes.

“All of you, sit down,” he continued, his voice a low growl, and everyone obeyed, sitting down on the floor.

Rosie and Casper sat huddled up together, close to Harry and Susan, beside the staircase. Margaret sat on the arm of the armchair beside Bhargavi, who was now cuddling a much more relaxed Jane.

Sherlock stood on his feet beside John, trying to give him strength just with his presence.

There were a few seconds of blessed silence, which  Bhargavi broke.

“I just think the baby needs a _real_ family,” she said, and all Sherlock wanted to do was to chuck the heaviest object available at her head.

“A ‘real’ family?” John asked through gritted teeth, his tone icy, and dangerous. It made Sherlock shiver.

The reckless woman continued. “Yes, one where the father doesn’t go and get drunk in every pub and the children aren’t raised by a teenager clearly not fitting for the task.”

“How am I not fitting?” John asked calmly, but his stare was murderous. The kids were dead silent, knowing full well how to avoid John’s wrath.

“Well, look at this place! No couch, we’re all sitting on the fucking floor, your sister came home drunk at five in the afternoon, the kids came back on their own from school… this is not a healthy environment.”

John took a deep breath, and then let out an unamused, hollow laugh.

“You do realise that it’s your girlfriend who left us in this position, right?”

Bhargavi scowled at him, “Don’t you try and blame your poor mother for escaping a potentially very dangerous situation for her mental health. Your father’s ruined her life, and now that she’s better she can take care of some of you.”

John closed his eyes, running a hand over his face. “You’re kidding, right?”

“We can give Jane a real family,” Bhargavi said with finality.

“Out of the fucking question,” Susan yelled, her eyes filled with tears and her voice hoarse.

“Bhargavi and I just want to start a family of our own,” John’s mother pleaded pathetically, getting up to her feet to walk closer to him.

John’s calm snapped.

“Well, how about you finish this one first?” He snarled, and Margaret took a step back.

“They’re taking Jane?” Casper sobbed, and Harry hugged him to him just as John yelled, “No!”

John took a deep breath and looked at Casper. “No, nobody’s taking anyone anywhere.”

John turned to his mother once again, an incredulous, yet furious look on his face. “You don't get to _abandon_ your kids and then show up one day to take your pick of the litter!”

Joe got up as well, his whole body quivering, “Oi, now that's n-not fair. Your mother’s made mistakes, but she’s here now. That's got t-to count for something!”

“Shut up, Joe!” John barked, and there was so much venom in his words that the man visibly flinched, and leaned against the wall, cowed into silence.

“This isn’t about you!” John continued screaming at him. Then he turned to his mother.

“This is about _you_. This is about what you didn’t do, what you’ve _never_ done.”

There was something in John’s voice. It was thick with emotion and at the same time firm and detached. Full of rage and yet incredibly calm. Like the static energy before a thunderstorm.

“This is about what _I_ did,” John continued, his tone lowering, pointing at himself. “And you know what? _I_ did a fucking great job.”

“And I knew you could!” Margaret suddenly exclaimed, an almost-smile on her face.

John tilted his head at her, and she nodded, her grin widening around her tears. “I’d never have left, if I didn’t think you could cope.”

A stunned silence welcomed her words. John let out a disbelieving huff, while Sherlock gaped at the woman. Seriously?

“Great,” John said in mock glee, clapping his hands together, and his mother shushed him.

“Oh, you could, couldn’t ya? It’s not like I left anybody in a mess.”

The more the woman talked, the more she seemed to convince herself she was right, nodding at her own words, growing bolder.

“I mean, your father was driving me insane. If there was one person who could change ‘im, deal with ‘im, well, that was you, darling.”

When no one reacted to her words, she went on, punctuating each syllable. “I knew John could cope.”

As if that settled it. As if that could make her mistakes forgivable. Sherlock wanted to deck her.

John glared at her for long, long seconds. Sherlock had never seen him that furious. He was livid.  Incandescent with rage.

Slowly, John walked to the kids, still sat with their backs to the staircase.

“Shall we catch up on what’s been going on here while I was _coping_?” John snarled.

“Since you’ve never bothered asking, well, Susan’s top of her class, she took ten GCSEs last year,” he said, hurt and rage and pride mixing in his tone, as he jabbed his finger in his sister’s direction.

“Casper, tell her how many prizes you won last year.”

“Maths, English, Chemistry and Neatness,” Casper mumbled, and John nodded.

“Harry is captain of the field hockey team, they won finals last season. And Rosie made something blow up for her science fair.” John’s voice was growing louder and more wobbly the more he spoke, and Sherlock didn’t know what to do. He felt utterly useless.

“And Gabe,” John gestured towards Sherlock, “Gabe is only three and can spell his name.”

Margaret looked amazed, looking between her kids with a weird mix of awe, pride and regret. God, she was crying again. It was pathetic.

“And you know what?” John’s voice was cracking, Sherlock noticed with horror, “ _They_ did it all and not thanks to you, because you. Weren’t. HERE!”

John shouting wasn’t something people witnessed often. John’s rage was calm, and his siblings knew better than to anger him to that point.

The kids didn’t dare breathe as tears started streaming down John’s face, utterly terrified by what they were seeing. And Sherlock couldn’t do anything; he couldn’t, couldn’t help John and it was the second time John cried in the same day and Sherlock was so useless, so useless…

“And I appreciate that John, but… I’m here now,” Margaret explained, shrugging her shoulders, trying to hold back her tears. “And Jane belongs with me.”

“She doesn’t even know who you are!” John exclaimed, throwing his arms in the sky.

“I’m her mother!” Margaret wailed pathetically, choking around the words.

“You are my mother too!” John finally yelled and that, that broke Sherlock’s heart.

He saw as John tried to take back what he had just said, watched helplessly as he struggled to build his defences back up, to pretend that he didn’t care anymore about the woman he only ever called Margaret, that he only cared about his siblings’ well-being.

Sherlock eyed him closely as he bit back sob after sob, taking long breaths to calm down, digging his fingernails in his forearms.

Margaret’s tears had stopped flowing, and she was now staring at him with her mouth slightly open, a hurt look in her eyes.

Then she took a breath and steeled herself. “Maybe I'll never be able to make things right with you, but there's still time with Jane,” she said. Sherlock closed his eyes.

How could a person like that birth John and the kids?

John stared at her with a baffled expression, unable to believe she was just going to ignore everything he’d just said.

“And Casper and Rosie,” Margaret continued softly, kneeling in front of the kids.

“I’m so sorry if I hurt you. Please, I love you so much,” her voice broke off, a sob ripping through her, “Please, let me be your Mummy again.”

Sherlock watched John with worry, because as soon as Casper and Rosie hugged their mother, John’s face became emotionless. It was terrifying, watching John’s usually expressive features dull into nothing.

Then he took a deep breath and stalked to his jacket.

“You know what?” He said, staring at his mother, “You’re right. You _are_ their mother.”

At John’s words, Harry and Susan shared worried glances, while Joe frowned at him.

John went on. “And you’re here now,” he smiled with nothing in it.

He fished his keys from the jacket pocket and toyed with them. “So I’m done. I’m done with the school, and the bills, and the clinics.”

Forcefully, he slammed the keys on the small table beside the entrance door. “I’m done.”

John moved to the door, ignoring the panicked looks his siblings (and Sherlock) were throwing him. Bhargavi looked satisfied, like a cat who got the cream, while Joe and Margaret just looked confused.

“They’re all yours now, Mum,” John said, and Sherlock shivered at the word Mum, spoken so hollowly, as if it didn’t have any meaning.

“Good luck,” John finished, and stalked out of the house, leaving silence in his wake.

 

**10:34pm**

“You just moved in?” John questioned, kicking out of the way a couple of cardboard boxes.

Sherlock’s mouth twitched as he poured the tea he had just made in two mugs he had to retrieve from a box hidden under the sink.

“Something like that,” he simply said, handing John his mug just as the man sat down in front of him.

John made a noncommittal noise, before ducking his head to blow on his tea, wrapping his hands around the ceramic to keep them warm.

“Hey, erm,” John started softly, not lifting his gaze from the tea, “Can I ask you something?”

Sherlock took a sip before answering, fearing what the question might be. “Sure.”

John scratched the back of his neck and hissed through his teeth, before huffing in frustration.

“Okay, it’s just… You’re really nineteen, right?”

Sherlock sighed. Yeah, he had expected it. After all, what other nineteen-year-old had his own place?

“I never lied to you about it. I’ll be twenty on the sixth of January.”

John nodded, visibly relieved. “It’s not that I didn’t trust you, but,” he gestured around the flat, “You know.”

Sherlock acknowledged John’s words bowing his head, but didn’t add further.

“So… are your parents dead?” John ventured.

Sherlock had two possible answers.

  1. _Yes_. With this answer, Sherlock would be _actively_ lying to John, and would thus be unable to play the “lying by omission” card when he told John the truth;
  2. _No_. By saying no, Sherlock would have opened a Pandora vase, that would have led John to ask more and more questions, until everything crumbled to pieces.



Slowly, he shook his head. He opened his mouth, trying to add something, but nothing came out.

 

**9:26pm**

Sherlock remained frozen in his spot, watching as Casper and Rosie drew back from Margaret to glower at her, while Harry and Susan ran upstairs.

Not knowing what to do, Sherlock turned to Joe.

“Why would you sign your daughter off?” He questioned.

Joe shrugged. “They told me if I gave them Jane, Margaret would sign my papers to get me my money.”

Sherlock sneered. “What money?”

“The money those bastards owe me! I w-worked myself to the bone for t-two months in their fucking company, and when I get injured, nothing! I sued them but without m-my wife’s signature they can’t gimme shit.”

Sherlock set his jaw, trying to stay calm. “How much do they owe you?”

Joe folded his arms, “Five grand, that’s what they owe Joe Watson.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. The man in front of him was ready to sell his daughter for five thousand pounds. Sherlock felt sick. How did John survive in here day after day after day?

“That all?”

Joe gaped at him, “You spit on it! Five grand!” Joe exclaimed, as if that explained everything.

Sherlock smiled wryly at him, his arms a bit sore after holding Gabe for all that time. The kid weighed eighteen bloody kilograms!

“I can get you six grand, just wait until tomorrow to sign Jane’s papers.”

Before either woman could say something, he turned to them and hissed, “And if you disappear with her by tomorrow, rest assured I will find you, and it won’t be nice.”

He didn’t give them time to answer, he just turned and got his and Gabe’s jacket. The child was in fact still holding on to him for dear life, and Sherlock felt cold dread at the mere idea of letting him down (in every sense of the term).

Outside, John was waiting beside his car, his face hidden in his hands, completely still.

Sherlock opened the backdoor and sat Gabe in the seat. His head lolled to the side, and Sherlock secured the seat belt around him as best as he could, before wrapping his jacket around his tiny frame.

When he shut the car door, John still hadn’t moved.

“Hey,” Sherlock started, but didn’t manage to get anything else out because John had thrown himself at him, hiding his face in his coat.

Sherlock hugged him tightly, just as he had that morning, and whispered soft words in his golden hair.

After a few minutes (or maybe hours), John lifted his head and stared at Sherlock for long seconds.

“William, I,” He started, then huffed a wet laugh and shook his head.

Sherlock froze, knowing full well what was coming and unable to stop it.

John took a deep breath and stared at him right in the eye. His gaze was sweet and thankful and so goddamn _open_ , it was like John was letting Sherlock in to see his soul, laid bare for him. Sherlock couldn’t breathe.

“I lov-” Before he could finish the sentence, Sherlock grabbed John by the lapels of his jacket and kissed him hard.

 _Don’t say it_ , he thought. _You wouldn’t say it if you knew the truth about me._

 

**10:40pm**

“You don’t have to answer you know,” John said after a long sigh.

Sherlock cocked his head at him but didn’t add anything.

“I mean, I should know something about fucked up families,” John let out a bitter laugh, “Can’t really force you talking to me about yours. Must be bastards for you to have escaped them.”

Sherlock swallowed around the painful lump in his throat. He thought of his mother, sweet and so, so worried about him, ready to forgive him for months of pain just because he was safe, and that was all that mattered to her. He thought of his father, waiting on the porch every goddamn day. He thought of Mycroft, setting his homework aside to help Sherlock collect soil samples in the garden. He thought of Greg, spreading murder scene pics all over the floor, asking for Sherlock’s opinion.

No, they weren’t bastards.

Joe Watson was a bastard. He took what he pleased and offered nothing. The only reason he was still with the kids was the weekly child benefit check, money that he inevitably drank at the local pub.

And what about Margaret, Jesus Christ. Out of the two of them, Margaret was probably the worst. She didn’t care one flying fuck about her kids.

Sherlock had been so lucky with his family and he had never realised.

After another long sigh, John got up and offered his hand to Sherlock.

Sherlock eyed it before lifting his gaze to John’s eyes.

They were sad, and tired and worried and scared. But in them Sherlock also read the need for him to take that hand. So he did.

John’s shoulders slumped, relieved, and he tugged at Sherlock until he was standing.

Without speaking, knowing full well what John needed, Sherlock starting leading him towards the bedroom.

Perhaps he could fix this. Just for tonight.

 

**9:52pm**

“Has Rosie brushed her teeth? And Casper? Tell her no reading under the covers after ten. School day tomorrow. Pass me over.”

A beat.

“No Rosie, brushing your teeth without toothpaste is not enough. C’mon, off you go. I already told Susan, lights out at ten and no reading. No arguing. Pass me Casper.”

Sherlock turned his head to look at John, his head tilted back on the car seat, a hand covering his face.

“Yeah, hi Casper. Hey, hey no, shh, don’t cry. It’s fine, please don’t- Yes, I’m coming back. I’ll see you tomorrow, I promise. Love you to the moon and back, have a good night’s sleep, we’ll fix this. Pass me Harry?”

John looked exhausted.

“Hey, Harry. How’s the hangover?”

John huffed a laugh.

“Cool. Listen, I’m sorry we didn’t manage to talk about- No, your wellbeing is important, okay? We’ll talk tomorrow. Sorry I fucked off, wanna see how Margaret _copes_. If she fucks up call me though, okay? Yes, I’m staying at William’s for the night.”

A blush and a grin spread on John’s face.

“Piss off,” John muttered in the phone. “Okay, pass me Susan again. Goodnight Harry.”

While waiting for Susan to pick up, John turned to Sherlock and smiled softly at him, lifting his hand to brush a curl behind his ear.

Then Susan picked up, and John turned his head. “Yeah, Sue? Where are the harpies? Seriously? They’re not gonna last two days. It’s gonna be over soon, I’m sure of it. Keep an eye on Jane. You can use my room, squeeze in there with her. How’s she doing?”

John sighed, visibly relieved, before laughing quietly. “That baby is too tranquil for her own good. Okay, perfect. Thank you, Susan. I really appreciate- No, I do. Really. See you tomorrow, okay? Okay. Bye.”

Then John lowered the phone on his thigh and took a deep breath, throwing his head back to hit the seat with a soft thud.

“Everything okay?” Sherlock queried, and John nodded with his eyes closed.

“Fucking Margaret and the other one are sleeping in their camper that’s parked outside the house, they left Jane with the others. Joe fucked off. Probably going to spend the night under a bridge or outside a pub, I don’t give a fuck.”

“Well, I mean, if Margaret and Bhargavi aren’t in the house, we could go back.”

John shook his head forcefully. “No. Tomorrow morning they’ll have to make breakfast and give them money and they’re gonna freak out. Let’s see how they _cope_.”

It was the second time since leaving the house that John had used that verb.

Sherlock wanted to tell him that this kind of bitterness wasn’t going to give any positive results. That they should drive back and take care of the kids like usual and face the Margaret threat together and from their house.

But Sherlock didn’t know how well his idea would have been received by John; so he said nothing.

John glanced back at Gabe and smiled. “How the fuck did he manage to fall asleep in that chaos?”

Sherlock shrugged, “Had a blast at the bowling centre, then the emotional shock of all the screaming must’ve worn him out.”

John hmm’d. Then, “Is your place still far?”

“Nah, just ten minutes more,” Sherlock replied, and John hmm’d again.

“Wait, bowling centre?”

Sherlock smiled and told him all he and the kids had done that evening, as he drove to Montague Street.

 

**10:53pm**

John lay with his back on Sherlock’s bed, stark naked, an embarrassed expression on his face.

Sherlock paced back and forth in front of the bed, tugging at his hair in frustration.

“Sorry,” John murmured.

Sherlock flapped a hand around, “Erectile dysfunction is nothing to be ashamed of, it’s a perfectly normal reaction to stress situations.”

John groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“It’s just,” He started, then he groaned again and fell silent.

Sherlock sighed and crawled on the bed in his boxer briefs, laying half on top of John.

“We don’t have to do anything, you know,” Sherlock whispered, pressing a chaste kiss on the corner of John’s mouth.

John turned his head with an urgent look in his eyes. “No, no you see, _that’s_ the problem!” He explained, and Sherlock frowned at him, seeing him suddenly heated.

“I, I _need_ this tonight, I really do, but I can’t stop thinking and my head keeps… ugh,” John ran his hand through his hair, utterly frustrated.

Sherlock studied John for long seconds, before nodding and getting up.

Trying to shut your racing mind? Sherlock was an _expert_ at that. Sherlock walked to his wardrobe and retrieved the rucksack with which he had escaped Cambridge.

He opened the left pocket and grabbed what he needed, then shoved everything inside the wardrobe and closed it again.

He turned to John and watched in amusement as John’s mouth fell open.

“Are those…?” John breathed.

Sherlock nodded. “Handcuffs,” he smiled, and sat on the bed in front of John.

John frowned at him, clearly not getting the point.

Sherlock sighed, staring at the duvet between them, rather than John’s eyes.

“I… Before I met you, I had a hard time trying to slow down my mind. I would think and think and think and very little helped me from going crazy. My mind’s like… like a rocket tearing itself to pieces. Without something to entertain me, my brain _rots._ Since I met you and the kids it’s better, because there’s always so much to do it’s impossible to feel bored with you.”

Sherlock paused, looking up to check if John was still listening to him. He was. Intently.

More confident, Sherlock continued.

“My ex, Victor, he would often complain I thought too much, that I wasn’t focused on him during sex, so together we came up with this,” Sherlock explained, the handcuffs dangling from his loose grip.

John swallowed loudly.

“Will this work?” He asked hoarsely.

“It just… It helps you focus on the sensations only,” Sherlock shrugged, and John nodded.

“Can you take them off after I’m ready, though?” John asked. Sherlock nodded forcefully, “Of course.”

John gave a sharp nod. “Let’s do it.”

Sherlock’s heart leapt in his chest, and then it started hammering. He could feel it beating everywhere.

Slowly, he straddled John’s waist, and John lifted his arms above his head, resting his crossed wrists on the headboard.

“Relax,” Sherlock whispered, kissing John’s shoulder, ghosting his fingers on John’s side until the man was calm and loose underneath him.

Sherlock lifted the handcuffs. “Okay?” He asked, and John nodded.

Slowly, reverently, Sherlock handcuffed John to the headboard, eliciting a soft gasp from John.

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock murmured against John’s lips, “The kids are safe, they’re okay. We’ll see them tomorrow. Everything’s gonna work out fine.”

He kissed John’s eyelids, his nose, his cheekbones, the soft spot behind his ears, his jaw, his cheeks.

“Close your eyes,” he breathed against John’s neck, eliciting goose bumps on the man’s tanned skin.

So, so slowly, John began sagging under Sherlock’s touch, becoming pliant under his lips and fingertips.

Only then Sherlock started running his hands up and down John’s body, whispering against John’s skin an endless series of, “You’re safe, you’re okay,” but especially, “I’ve got you.”

God, it had never been like this with Victor.

Victor would just complain Sherlock’s mind was elsewhere and then would tie him up and tease and tease until Sherlock was hard just so he could boast and sneer, “Focused on me now, uh?”

This wasn’t about control, or about sex. This was about John, who needed relief, and his impossibility to achieve it. This was about Sherlock, doing everything he could to stop John’s mind from worrying and spinning and racing.

Just the two of them.

When John’s expression was of utter bliss and his breathing was ragged, only then Sherlock started being more deliberate in his touches; teasing his nipples, massaging the inside of his thighs, nuzzling the warm skin of John’s neck, licking wet stripes with his tongue and then blowing gently on them.

It worked.

After only a few minutes of this, John’s erection was poking in Sherlock’s side, making him grin in John’s clavicle.

“Don’t be smug,” John good-naturedly scolded him, just a tad out of breath.

Sherlock’s grin only widened as he lifted his gaze to stare into John’s flushed face.

“Want me to free you?”

“God, yes. Need to wipe that smug grin off your face,” John joked.

Sherlock scrambled to the bedside table, grabbing the key. He freed John, then took the open handcuffs and tossed them to the side, eagerly sitting cross-legged in front of John.

John leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his neck, kissing him deeply. Sherlock let John dictate the pace. It started out slow, just a languid slide of lips on lips.

John sucked on his lower lip and Sherlock gasped. Humming in approval, John pried Sherlock’s mouth open, slipping his tongue in. Sherlock let him explore, let the man run his tongue on Sherlock’s palate, making him shiver and tingle.

“On your back,” John whispered, his humid breath warm against the shell of Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock readily complied, adjusting himself on the pillows and already spreading his legs.

John smiled fondly down at him; so, so fondly that Sherlock’s breath hitched.

“Lube?” John asked quietly, preserving the sacred-like atmosphere that they had created in the bedroom.

Sherlock jerked his head towards the bedside table, and John opened the top drawer, retrieving a small bottle of lube, the seal still on. Sherlock had never taken anyone home.

“The condoms are in the bottom drawer,” Sherlock started to say, but John shook his head, cracking the seal open and coating his fingers in lube.

He gave himself a few slow, lazy strokes, and Sherlock barely dared breathe, ask, “What are we doing?”

He just watched John with an enthralled expression, waiting with tingly anticipation for his next move.

“Take off your pants, please?” John asked, and Sherlock scrambled to his knees to comply. Once he was naked, sighing in relief as his half-hard cock met the cool air, he lay down again, peering at John with heavy-lidded eyes.

John braced himself atop Sherlock, his forearm resting on the sheet beside Sherlock’s hair, his thumb stroking Sherlock’s brow. Then, John bent to kiss him, and Sherlock barely noticed as the first finger breached his entrance. Surprised, he gasped, but his sound was swallowed by John’s mouth.

John worked Sherlock opened with just one finger, before slipping a second in. Only then he crooked his digits, and his fingertips found Sherlock’s prostate, making sparks of colours and sounds run to Sherlock’s brain to fill him with pleasure.

When Sherlock was a babbling mess, John took his fingers out with a wet sound, and wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s now incredibly hard cock.

John squirted more lube on his fingers, stroking leisurely, unhurriedly. Sherlock hissed, hands fisted in the sheet.

“Almost there, patience,” John murmured, jerking his wrist wickedly.

“John,” Sherlock whined, his hips canting up of their own volition.

John gave him a soft smile, before releasing his erection and cleaning his hand on the sheet.

“Okay,” he said, cupping Sherlock’s cheek with one hand and lacing their fingers together with the other, “Okay.”

He settled in between Sherlock’s legs, aligning their slick erections. Sherlock instinctively wrapped his legs around John’s middle section, pressing the heels of his feet at the small of John’s back, pressing him closer.

John let out a slow breath, one hand tangled in Sherlock’s hair, the other still gripping tightly onto Sherlock’s fingers.

John let his forehead fall on Sherlock’s, his eyes closed.

Then he started rolling his hips and it was so good. So good.

“Kiss me,” John pleaded, and Sherlock complied.

 

* * *

 

They both woke up to a child crying. Loudly.

Someone threw a piece of fabric in his face.

“Put your pants on,” John ordered, getting out of bed.

“That wasn’t what you said earlier,” Sherlock grumbled, making John smile and flip him off with a half-hearted, “Tosser.”

Then John disappeared through the bedroom door, leaving Sherlock to deal with the pressing matter “Where is the front and where is the back of my pants and how do I find out without turning the lights on consequently burning my retina?”

In the end, he just settled on finding the holes in which  to slip his legs in and fuck everything else. He had just finished doing just so, when John appeared in the doorway, Gabe secured on his hip.

Sherlock tilted his head in a silent question.

John sighed. “Someone’s had a nightmare,” he explained, and Gabe looked down, suddenly shy.

John lowered Gabe on the bed, “Gonna grab you some juice, mmh, and you tell Will what you dreamt about?”

Before exiting John threw Sherlock a look.

_You have juice, right?_

Sherlock scoffed. _Of course I do, look in the fridge._

John padded away, and Sherlock opened his arms, so that Gabe could snuggle up.

“Wanna tell me what the dream was about?” Sherlock asked, hugging Gabe to his chest, the child’s head perfectly fitting under his chin.

“There wazth mama,” Gabe whispered, “But she had _shakes_ on her head.”

Sherlock frowned. “You mean _snakes_?”

Gabe nodded. “Yeah, shakes,” He said, a bit annoyed.

Sherlock smiled against the top of his head. “And then what happened?”

Gabe shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut. “Not want to thay,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Sherlock reassured him, rocking back and forth, exchanging with John a worried glance when he came back from the kitchen.

John placed the carton of juice on the bedside table along with a glass, then crawled until he was behind Sherlock and Gabe. He wrapped his arms around them both, leaning with his forehead on Sherlock’s arm.

“Wanna sleep with us, monkey?” John asked Gabe, who nodded enthusiastically.

Both Sherlock and John lay on their side, facing each other, Gabe squeezed between them, his back flushed to Sherlock’s chest, his tiny hand resting on John’s neck. Sherlock and John’s hands lay intertwined on Gabe’s side. A couple of minutes, and the child had passed out.

Suddenly, John started laughing.

“What?” Sherlock questioned in amusement, his own lips twitching in an automatic response.

John shook his head, “Nothing just… Was it really less than twenty-four hours ago that we were having rough morning sex at the Savoy?”

 

* * *

 

John’s alarm rang at five in the morning, like usual. Sherlock burrowed his face in the pillow, and Gabe hid his own in Sherlock’s chest. Without opening his eyes, Sherlock wrapped his arms around the child.

“G’way,” he muttered, “We want to sleep.”

John laughed, and Sherlock felt the bed dip under his weight. John nuzzled Sherlock’s ear, and Sherlock could feel that the man was smiling.

“Can I use some of your clothes, or have you moved them all over to my place?”

Sherlock cracked one eye open. “Mmh?”

John smirked, “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you smuggling your stuff in little by little. My wardrobe has more fancy shirts than anything else in it!”

Sherlock smiled in the pillow, and said nothing.

John sighed. “So, do you have shorts or a shirt I can run with?”

“Second cardboard box to the right in the kitchen,” Sherlock mumbled.

He felt John get up and rummage through his stuff.

“You’re so bloody tall,” John grumbled when he entered the room again, and Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh at the image of John with a long-sleeved thermal shirt and sweatpants.

Both were way too long and narrow for him, and had been rolled up to fit John better, with disputable results.

“Mmh, pretty,” Sherlock chirped from the bed.

“Fuck off,” John snipped, but there was a smile playing at his lips.

Then, in a whirl, he jumped on the bed, pinning Sherlock’s wrists down and straddling his waist.

“You wanker,” he murmured without spite, grinning widely. Sherlock grinned back and let John bend down to kiss him.

“Be back in an hour or so,” John said against his lips, then pecked him again and left.

Sherlock, his heart thudding in his chest like it did every time John kissed him, shook his head and sat up to prepare breakfast.

The flat was bare, and if John were more observant, he would surely notice that it was the typical house of a drug addict. There was nothing personal, it was unkempt, untidy. The floor needed sweeping, his clothes and everything else was still in cardboard boxes. The fridge only contained junk food, and not even much of that.

Scratching his head, Sherlock looked around, trying to find something to cook a decent breakfast with before John came back.

His skin felt a bit itchy, and he couldn’t quite stand still. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Sherlock approached the kitchen counter and gripped it.

For a fleeting moment, his mind wandered to the bathroom, where, behind the toilet tank, was the fix to his malaise.

He shook his head, his eyes squeezed tight.

No.

Not with Gabe in the other room.

Taking another deep breath, Sherlock opened the fridge, and found some milk. He opened it and smelled it. Still good.

Next he opened the cupboard and almost squealed when he found an open box of cereal. Then it was time for bowl-hunting.

He opened cardboard box after cardboard box, until he finally found three mismatched bowls.

Proud of himself, he placed the three bowls on the table and filled them with milk. Then he shoved them one after the other in the microwave (never used), until the milk was warm.

He was pouring the cereal into the third bowl when John came back.

“Hello,” John called, walking up to Sherlock to kiss his cheek. Sherlock acknowledged him with just a nod, focused as he was in his task.

John giggled, amused, slumping down on a stool.

“Thanks,” he said, before diving with a spoon in his bowl.

Right then, they heard a quiet padding, and they both turned to see a sleep-wrinkled Gabe rubbing his eyes in the kitchen entrance.

“Hey there,” John smiled, as Sherlock walked up to him and scooped him up, sitting him on a stool beside John.

Gabe, always a ray of sunshine in the morning, leaned with his weight on John’s side and closed his eyes, pushing his bowl away from him.

Sherlock sat down in front of them, and was hit by the thought that this was his life.

He stared at John spoon-feeding a very sleepy Gabe, at the domesticity of it all, and felt a tightness to his chest he couldn’t quite explain.

He thought of going back to the Watsons and not finding Jane there, and the mere thought was so _wrong_ that it made him cringe, his skin crawl. There was no way that was happening.

He would have done anything in his power to prevent that from happening. Even calling Mycroft, thus exposing himself and his lies to John.

They’d talk to Margaret and that idiot girlfriend of hers again that afternoon, and if they still insisted on taking Jane, then Sherlock would have no choice.

Sherlock glanced at the time on his phone. Shit.

He had to be at his parents’ at ten. And he was nervous. There was no lying about it. He was feeling pretty fucking anxious about it.

“Everything alright?” John asked him, his eyes crinkled with worry.

Sherlock tried to smile somewhat reassuringly, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

John frowned slightly at him, but then shrugged.

“Can I use your shower?” He asked, getting up from the table.

“Sure,” was Sherlock’s instant reply.

John disappeared in the bathroom, and Sherlock slumped on the couch with Gabe. He was all in to turn the telly on and let Gabe watch one of those moronic kids show, but the little boy wanted to play “ _Shpaypa-man_ ”. It took Sherlock ten minutes (and some visual demonstration on Gabe’s side) to understand that the child wanted to play _Spider-Man_. After that, Sherlock had to jump from couch to chair and back, pretending to fall whenever Gabe hissed “ffffssh” and threw some invisible cobwebs at him.

John exiting the shower was a blessing.

“Okay,” John said, clapping his hands together.

“I’m heading to the motel, I left my uniform home but there’s always some spare ones in the laundry. You,” and he jabbed his finger in Sherlock’s direction, “Are gonna take Gabe to school and are also going to pick the kids up. Don’t want Bhargavi-turdface questioning my parenting again. I’ll be home waiting for you all, checking if Jane is fine and trying to knock some sense into shithead number one and two. Clear?”

Sherlock nodded, trying to look as reliable as possible, even when his hair was a mess, he was in boxer briefs, and had a three-year-old hanging from his neck in what was clearly an attempt to suffocate him.

“Good,” John nodded, twisting his fingers.

Then he checked his phone, his tongue darting out to wet his lips in a clear sign of worry. “It’s just a couple of subway stations,” he muttered to himself, before digging his hands in his pockets. Instantly, he went beet red, and froze on the doorway.

Sighing, Sherlock walked to get his wallet, Gabe still anchored to his neck, and got out ten pounds.

“Please take this and don’t complain,” he told John, slipping the money in his jacket pocket. John blushed even more, before glaring at him.

“I could walk.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “You can still walk if you want, I’m not taking the money back though.”

John huffed through his nose, clearly annoyed. Then he sighed, calming down.

“I’ll pay you back,” he said, lifting his chin proudly. Sherlock couldn’t do anything but nod, and that seemed to settle it for John.

“Thanks,” he said, before lifting on his tiptoes to kiss Gabe’s forehead.

“Be good to William, mmh?”

“Onwy if he ith a dood veewan,” he replied, making John laugh.

“Translate, please?” Sherlock asked him.

“He said he’s gonna be good to you only if you are a good villain,” he explained. Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, and was surprised by the feeling of John’s lips on his.

“Thank you for letting us crash here,” John whispered seriously, and Sherlock shrugged, averting his gaze.

“You let me crash at yours every other day.”

John smiled softly. “True.”

This said, he bid good bye and left.

“So Gabe,” Sherlock asked, turning his head to look the kid in the eye. “Up to buying a new couch and meeting my family?”

“No thkool?” Gabe tilted his head, peering warily at Sherlock.

“Nah,” Sherlock replied, “School is boring. Also, I’m meeting my family after I haven’t seen them in a while and I’m a bit scared. Would you hold my hand?”

God, he wasn’t even lying. He was so goddamn anxious at the prospect of going back home. Having Gabe at his side could make it better.

Gabe smiled sweetly at him. “Okay,” he said.

Relieved, Sherlock grinned at him.

“Well, let’s go then.”

 

* * *

 

They chose a couch that looked like the old one, but that was fireproof, more resistant and waterproof. Sherlock had Gabe jump up and down it, and the kid went out of his way to test it: biting and scratching and spilling orange juice on it. Satisfied of its durability, Sherlock purchased it, and asked it was delivered at John’s address no later than Monday.

On their way to Sherlock’s childhood home, Sherlock took a little detour (not at all to postpone the inevitable meeting with his family) and took Gabe to Hamleys.

The kid had never seen so many toys all together, and Sherlock noticed that he was a bit overwhelmed at the beginning, unsure whether he could touch what was exposed. After the initial uncertainty though, it was hard for Sherlock to keep up with him.

They managed to get out with just a plastic dinosaur for Gabe, who had insisted Sherlock buy a present for the others as well.

So they bought a child chemistry set (with one hundred experiments) for Rosie, a set of Geomag pieces for Casper and a small, orange stuffed seal for Jane. They also got a Cards Against Humanity deck for Harry and Susan to share.

Then it was nine thirty, and Sherlock hailed a cab and for the first time in almost eight months, gave his address.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you watch Shameless you might've noticed that John's argument with Margaret is a mix between the [US](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ykUTh9cVuJs) and the [UK](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gqx88pw0D2o&index=46) (min 43:29 – 45:27) version. I'm linking you the scenes because if you've never watched Shameless you might be curious and go like "ooh I wanna suffer and watch that shit!"  
> You're welcome. 
> 
> I cannot thank you enough for every hit and kudos and subscription and bookmark and especially comment. It's a really shitty period for me and reading that people enjoy what I write always warms my heart :) 
> 
> See you in two weeks! :) xx


	8. "No Matter How Bad Things Are..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the delay, from now on it's still once every two weeks, it's just that I was on holiday and when I came back I wrote a few fics for my friends. Sorry. 
> 
> Also I apologize for how short this chapter is, but this is just a "linking" chapter to the next one, that's gonna be full on angst so be ready. 
> 
> Notice that now there's a chapter count: I planned everything, yayyy 
> 
> Unbeta'd because I couldn't wait to post it ugcoiwegc
> 
> Well, enjoy! xx

_Friday, 19 th November, morning_

**Susan**

Susan woke up at seven with a terrible headache. Jane was sleeping soundly beside her, her fast, short breaths warming Susan’s cheek.

Susan stretched her arms up above her head, cranking her neck as she did. John’s bed might be larger than hers, but it certainly wasn’t more comfortable.

Still sleepy, Susan tried to go back to sleep, at least for a couple of minutes more, but the noise of pans being handled downstairs made her brow furrow and her lips purse in annoyance. Just then, Jane began moving, turning left and right, looking for body warmth.

Susan provided her, hugging her tightly, scared as hell at the thought of leaving her tiny, adorable sister in the hands of the two harpies currently trying to make breakfast downstairs.

Hearing Rosie’s door open, as well as the bathroom one, Susan huffed a sigh and got up, settling Jane on her hip. The baby whined at the sudden movement just a little, but soon calmed down, lowering her head on Susan’s shoulder, her little hand clutching at the fabric of her pyjamas.

“Hey Rosie,” Susan said, ruffling her sister’s golden hair. Rosie’s face looked crumpled, like she had too little sleep, a look that was appalling on an eight-year-old. Susan despised her mother violently.

“Who’s in the bathroom?” She asked, and Rosie rubbed her eyes, before yawning and saying, “Harry.”

Susan hmm’d, then she stretched her free arm. “Let’s go downstairs?” She questioned, and Rosie hesitated, before nodding, worrying her lower lip.

Slowly, the three sisters climbed down the stairs, to find Bhargavi sat at their dinner table, Margaret bent over three different pans, trying to fry some pancakes.

“Oh, you’re awake,” she said, a tad out of breath, as if cooking was this hard a task. Looking at her though, all covered in flour and surrounded by cracked eggshells and dirty bowls, it may seem so. Susan glared at the mess. It wouldn’t be nice to clean it, and she knew Margaret wouldn’t find a concern.

“Apparently,” Susan grumbled, just as Casper made his way down the stairs, leaning with his weight on Susan’s side.

“Don’t stand there, I don’t bite!” Margaret laughed nervously. Slowly, as if approaching a wild animal, the four siblings walked to the table and sat down.

Harry stormed downstairs in that very moment, already dressed.

“I’m going out and eating nothing your hands cooked, _Margaret_ ,” she spat out, then left through the back door.

Bhargavi huffed in indignation, while Margaret bit the inside of her cheek, evidently holding back her tears.

The silence was heavy, suffocating.

Margaret flashed them a wobbly smile and served them their pancakes. Susan took a bite.

They sucked.

“Well,” she said, slapping her palms on the table, “We’re late for school.”

“Give us Jane, so you can change and get ready,” Bhargavi’s voice made Susan’s arms hug Jane where she was sitting on her lap, her miniscule hands playing with the foul food in the plate.

Susan took a deep breath, and released it slowly.

“Casper, Rosie, get ready for school, hmm?” Bhargavi said with a sickly sweet voice.

The two kids looked at their sister, and after she nodded, they left the barely touched pancakes and climbed the stairs.

Susan handed Jane over before Bhargavi could kick the fuss she could read in the woman’s eyes.

“She drinks water from the grown-ups glasses, juice from her sippy-cup or from her bottle. They’re all there,” Susan started to explain, lifting a hand to point at Jane’s things.

“She eats when John gets back from work, and she’s already weaned, and she likes to eat. A _lot_. She is a funny type, so play with her. If you can’t be bothered, just give her an object to study and she’ll spend hours on it.”

“What do you mean ‘if you can’t be bothered’?” Margaret yelped, and Susan rolled her eye, getting up from her chair.

“You haven’t been bothered for eleven months, so how could I know?”

This said, she went upstairs, trying to tune out Jane’s unhappy wails as she changed.

 

 

**Sherlock**

It was surreal.

The wind was knocked out of Sherlock as he stared at his childhood home from behind the glass of the cab.

Sherlock bit his lower lip and held Gabe tightly to his chest. The child wriggled a bit, and Sherlock loosened his hold.

Sherlock had always thought that that grand house only held bad memories, and when he had left, he’d sworn he’d never come back. Yet now as he studied the familiar grandeur, Sherlock felt nostalgia spiral in his chest, constricting his lungs in a sickening hold.

God, he _missed_ home. How utterly pathetic. Sherlock let out a self-deprecating laugh and shook his head.

He paid the cab driver and opened the door, letting Gabe slip off his lap.

He held the child’s hand with a desperate grip, swallowing around something painful in his throat.

His parents must have been watching from inside of the house, for when he stepped out of the cab, the exited the house, and Siger Holmes started running towards his lost son.

Sherlock wound his arms around his father’s waist instinctively, burying his face in his shoulder. Like it had happened the night before with his mother, his father’s familiar smell made him feel like a child. He felt protected, loved, accepted.

Sherlock was _so_ not crying.

“Sherlock,” his father whispered. Sherlock held him tighter, so guilty it was unbelievable.

Twenty minutes and Sherlock and Gabe were sat on a white-as-new couch, a cup of steaming tea in his hands, his family sat across him and staring at the blond child sipping on his glass of orange juice.

Mycroft and Greg had been in the house when Sherlock had come in, and they both looked in equal parts relieved, angry, happy and unimpressed.

Then Violet had offered tea to everyone, and a tense silence fell.

Well, the adults were silent, because Gabe couldn’t stop _talking_. Sherlock was getting better at understanding his weird language, and could make out about a fair seventy-three percent of what escaped the little boy’s mouth.

Sherlock’s family, on the other hand, looked baffled.

“Lethz pway rwed?” Gabe suddenly exclaimed, getting up and almost dropping his glass.

Sherlock heaved a fake long-suffering sigh and got up. Gabe must have invented this new game somewhere between home and the cab, for Sherlock had never seen him play it.

Gabe reached up and slipped his hand in Sherlock’s, then yelled, “Gween!” And ran to the other side of the living room, dragging Sherlock with him. Halfway there, he yelled again, “Rwed!” And stopped in his track.

Sherlock laughed. Gabe was brilliant. He had observed as the cab stopped at every red light and carried on with green. He had been on a car just three or four times, and he had already picked up the mechanism. Sherlock truly adored him.

He turned to his family to see if they too realised how amazing and special Gabe was, but they were all staring at Sherlock with wide eyes.

Sherlock realised that he had rarely let them hear that sound.

“Sherlock,” Violet said, “Why don’t I take Gabe to your old toys room and let you talk to the others? You and I talked last night.”

Sherlock slowly nodded, his smile soon disappearing at the prospect of hearing his brother’s say on the matter.

He kneeled in front of Gabe. “Hey crumpet,” he whispered, touching the tip of his nose. Gabe scrunched it and rubbed at his face, giggling.

“No,” he said, and Sherlock smiled at him.

“Want to go with my mum in the other room?”

Gabe eyed Mrs. Holmes’ outstretched hand warily.

“Not rweally,” he replied.

“C’mon crumpet,” Sherlock encouraged him.

“NO!” Gabe yelled, running away to hide behind a couch.

“What a peculiar child. He reminds me of someone,” Mycroft chirped from his seat. Sherlock gritted his teeth, doing his best to ignore his brother. God, three minutes and he was already pissing him off.

 “Gabe,” Sherlock whispered, crawling next to the child, “I have a secret to share with you.”

Gabe’s eyes lit. “Tell me,” he whispered back, climbing on Sherlock’s lap.

Sherlock used his hands to cup Gabe’s ear, as if he was a kid telling a secret as well.

“The room my mum wants to take you to is full of real dinosaur fossils.”

Gabe’s jaw fell, and the child let out a shriek, “Nooo!” He yelled, unable to contain his enthusiasm, jumping up and running to Violet’s side.

“Show me the didothaurz?”

“He means the fossils,” Sherlock supplied, when he saw his mother’s lost expression.

“Ah,” she nodded, taking Gabe by his hand.

“Liam-yam?” Gabe called, and Sherlock kneeled before him once again.

“Yes?” He questioned, staring into Gabe’s impossibly green/grey eyes. They were huge, and just a bit shy.

“Keeth?”

Sherlock smiled and leaned forward, kissing Gabe’s forehead. “Go and have fun,” he said, ruffling his hair.

Gabe nodded, before kissing Sherlock’s cheek soundly and following Violet in the other room.

Gabe gone, Sherlock had no other choice but sit on his old armchair, and face the three men in front of him.

His father’s eyes were red, an incredulous smile on his lips. Sherlock just wanted to hug him again, even though he hadn’t hugged his father for about ten years.

Mycroft was sat with Lestrade on his left, their fingers laced together on the man’s thigh. Mycroft looked blankly at him, like he always did when trying to rein his emotions. Lestrade looked plainly furious.

“I had never taken you for a child enthusiast,” Mycroft said smoothly.

Sherlock took a deep breath. He really wanted to say ‘Fuck you’, but all that escaped his mouth was, “I apologise.”

Mycroft scoffed.

“Myc,” Lestrade tried to say, but Mycroft shook his head and spoke over his boyfriend (or should Sherlock call him fiancé?).

“You already gave Mummy your apologies,” he almost growled, which was quite worrying from someone usually as posed as Mycroft.

“So let us not beat around the bush; are you or are you not off the drugs?”

Sherlock bowed his head, scratching at his forehead.

“Working on it,” he said through gritted teeth.

“What does that even mean?”

“I’m… taking smaller and smaller doses, so I don’t suffer from the withdrawal,” he explained, his words sounding weak even to his ears.

“You talk like an addict, do you realise that?”

Sherlock dug his nails in the flesh of his forearm. “I’m a _user_ , not an addict, since I only _use_ once a week now.”

“Oh,” Mycroft said with a faux smile, clapping his hand together once, “And we should all be _glad_ , right?”

“Enough!” Siger Holmes roared, and both brothers fell silent.

“Stop it, the both of you,” the man continued,  passing a hand over his face, his eyes closed.

“Sherlock, son,” he said with a broken voice, “From the beginning, please?”

And Sherlock told them everything.

 

 

**John**

John found actual shit under a mattress in room 15. Someone had actually lifted the mattress, took a fucking dump, and put the mattress back on. For John to clean up the mess.

God he was pissed off.

Why were people such assholes? He thought of his mother as he tossed a used condom he found in room 16. What the fuck did she think she was doing by showing up?

John threw the door of room 17 closed with a loud bang.

“Oi, Watson, see not to break my doors,” Mr. Lancaster shouted from the yard.

“Sorry boss,” John replied, entering room 18.

How were Margaret and Bhargavi taking care of Jane? He had to go home as soon as possible. William had sent him a text about Gabe feeling sick, and then had sent him a picture of Gabe grinning in Hamleys.

John wasn’t mad at William for lying about Gabe’s health to take him to a toy store, so he had let that go. He just hoped they’d be done with their little tour before he finished his shift, so that Jane had to spend as less time as possible.

He still remembered when Margaret had brought Casper at the October Fest and had forgotten him there until fucking _November_.

Not for the first time in the last few years, John thought about custody. About taking the children with him forever, out of their parents’ reach. If he’d already done it, Margaret wouldn’t have no claim on Jane. But John had waited, and now he was losing his little sister. Goddammit!

John gritted his teeth as he made the bed.

Margaret wasn’t having Jane. She was a shite mother, and John knew it better than anyone. It wasn’t just that she disappeared every two years or so, it was that _everything_ about her meant danger.

She was a source of troubles so efficient that John couldn’t believe she didn’t go out of her way to find them.

He remembers the tequila fuelled midnight parties she would throw, when he was thirteen or so. Yes, he had lots of fun. Yes, it made him feel grown up and cool. But next days at school were never easy.

John didn’t want Margaret near the kids. She was a threat to them both when her mood was high and when she was depressed. What if she tried to kill herself again, in front of Jane this time?

John couldn’t even think about it.

Last time they were lucky, John found her and called an ambulance and the kids saw nothing, just the hospital waiting room.

What if she managed to kill herself for good this time? What about Jane? Alone with Bhargavi? John couldn’t allow it, and he _wouldn’t_.

No, they’d never have Jane.

 

 

**Margaret**

“I’m just saying that maybe-”

“No, Margaret, I’m not mothering seven deranged kids.”

Margaret pursed her lips and said nothing.

She wanted to come back to her kids. She’d stay this time, she felt it. She would stay and be a wonderful mother, and help Joe stay off the booze, and they’d have the perfect family… Bhargavi wasn’t much needed in this scenario.

“Margaret, love, all those months of therapy I paid for will be for nothing if you come back to the place that made you a cripple.”

A _cripple_. Bhargavi liked that word, often using it to describe her.

Bhargavi had found her on a pavement, passed out and covered in piss and her own sick but that didn’t mean she was a _cripple_.

She should leave Bhargavi, Margaret thought. Go back to Joe.

She’d seen him. Still hot as hell, a perfect puzzle piece that fit with her without issues. They were meant to be.

“Bhar, I want to stay.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Then I think we should go our separate ways.”

 

 

**Mycroft**

His little brother was an idiot. Mycroft stared at him as he tried to drink his tea with that blonde kid on his lap. He just hoped that little human hadn’t broken any precious fossil in Mycroft’s collection.

“Christmas?”

Sherlock nodded, spilling a few drops of tea on the floor when Gabe moved.

“Lwet me down!” The child exclaimed, jumping off Sherlock’s legs to sit on the arm of the armchair, making Sherlock’s job of drinking his tea even harder.

“So what, we give you until Christmas to OD?”

“Behave, Myc,” Violet hissed, and Mycroft gritted his teeth in annoyance. Was he the only one making sense?

“Let me get this straight,” Gregory started, leaning with his elbows on his knees, “You want until Christmas to tell your boyfriend about the drugs then you’ll willingly sign the papers to go to a rehab centre?”

Sherlock nodded again. “Yes, and I give you my word I will. I just need some time to talk to John. It’s just a month away, I’ll manage. I did for seven.”

“As we are aware,” Mycroft said dryly, then no one spoke.

After a few seconds, he said, “Well, I disagree. My opinion is that you should enter a rehabilitation centre right now and tell this John later.”

“It’s not your life to play with. It’s mine. I’m not bargaining this, I’m just illustrating the facts. Give me a month and I’ll go to rehab.”

Mother and Father looked willing. Mycroft sighed. They were scared of losing Sherlock again if they denied him.

He turned to Gregory, who looked at him and shrugged.

_It’s reckless and unhealthy and dangerous, but it’s his life, as he said. He’s almost twenty Myc, let go._

This was what Mycroft read in Gregory’s hazelnut eyes.

So he ran his tongue over his upper teeth and nodded to his mother.

“Take your time,” She said, and Sherlock smiled faintly at them.

 

* * *

 

 

_Friday, 19 th November, Afternoon_

**John**

When John came back from work, he found William gaping at Margaret, Bhargavi gone, as well as her camper. Gabe and Jane were nowhere to be seen.

“What’s happening? Where are the kids?” He asked urgently.

William answered him without looking at him, his eyes fixed on Margaret.

“They’re upstairs.”

“Alone?” John exclaimed, already running to the staircase.

William huffed, “Of course not, Harry skipped school and is with them.”

“Harry skipped school?”

“John, you feel like reiterating queries today? Could we move past this new phase of yours?”

 John tightened his fists in annoyance, but before he could verbally attack William, the boy interrupted him.

“Your mother is back. She’ll live here from now on, apparently.”

John’s mind went blank.

No. She couldn’t be back. She’d mess up all over again, and then leave them all broken and John to pick up the pieces, as if that didn’t hurt him, and no, no, no…

“No.”

“John, love, I sent Bhargavi away, she won’t be back. She wanted to start a family with me but I thought of your words and I want to finish this one first, because I love you. And I can help your father, and we can be happy, and-”

John shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut. “No.”

He remembered cocaine on tables, him keeping his sisters away from breathing it in for mistake. He remembered loud sex at all hours in every room. He remembered that one time Margaret and Joe found their winter fund, and stole all the money the kids had earned in the summer, to buy drugs and a shitty car. John remembered Margaret lying limply in her bed, unable to even answer, or eat. Margaret almost dead in his arms. The kids’ face whenever she left.

No, she wasn’t coming back.

“I have every right to be here,” she said, trying to hold her ground, but cowering under John’s angered stare.

“You have _no_ right.”

“I promise I won’t leave, I swear.”

“You say that every goddamn time,” John growled back.

 She started crying and John relented.

She was a bitch. And she would leave. But John… He could use a hand, for a while.

They were short on money and he wanted to become manager at the club where he was just a bartender. Margaret around meant he could try and take it. William wasn’t there all nights, and John couldn’t ask him to.

Fuck.

 

* * *

 

 

_Friday, 19 th November, evening_

**Casper**

Mum was back. John had said so, telling him and Rosie the story of the turtle.

Once, Casper and Rosie had a turtle. They had love it and cared for it tenderly, until one day they forgot about it and the turtle died.

In John’s story, they were the turtle and Mum was them. John had told them that no matter what she said, she wasn’t going to stick around, and they shouldn’t get used to it.

Casper understood what he meant, but it hurt no less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for bearing with me for so long! See you next chapter (bring tissues) ;) xx


	9. "... They Can Always Get Worse."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a parallel universe, this has been posted within two weeks since the last chapter. Yeah. 
> 
> Early chapter because I woke up at 7am to find that my lovely beta [mafm](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mafm/pseuds/mafm) had already beta'd this chapter so why not post it now? 
> 
> Enjoy the angst! xx
> 
>  **VERY IMPORTANT NOTE** : this chapter has been very diffucult to write for me because of a couple of scenes that I know may trigger someone. If you think yoou might be triggered, read the notes at the end of the chapter.

 

**Two weeks later**

Sherlock brought up the pink sponge to leave a soapy trail on Jane’s body. 

The baby stood in the sink, water almost to her knees, babbling happily as Sherlock bathed her. 

“And that’s why a water molecule is polar, Jane,” Sherlock said, squeezing the sponge over her head. 

“Bah bah bah,” She giggled, closing her eyes and wrinkling her nose. Sherlock smiled softly at her, caressing her smooth cheek. 

“You’ll do great things one day,” he told her seriously, making her lean forward to kiss him on the cheekbone. Well, more than a kiss, it was a press of her open mouth on his skin, but those were Jane’s kisses for you. Wet, snotty, and adorable. 

She cried a little when Sherlock took her out of the warm water, but it only took a couple of funny voices to calm her down. 

He massaged her with the oil John insisted he used and wrapped her in her onesie. 

Then he did the hardest thing he did in the whole day, every day. He walked down the stairs, and handed her to Margaret. 

“Here’s my baby,” the woman said in her awful, grating voice, the one that always made Sherlock’s skin crawl when she spoke to the kids. 

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to take Jane back in his arms and away from Margaret. It was almost an instinct. 

But there was a weird note to that voice that day. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as they focused on Margaret, and found dark circles under her eyes, her usually bright skirts substituted by a pair of well-worn trousers. 

Sherlock smelled the air. No perfume. Shit. 

“Have you taken your pills today?” He asked her, turning to get his coat. 

Margaret glared at him, “I don’t understand what my sweet John sees in you.”

“He’s not yours and he wouldn’t be happy to be called  _ sweet _ .” 

“Fuck you, William.”

Sherlock sighed, picking the keys of his car. “Always so articulate, Margaret.”

Then he yelled, “Kids! Your cabbie, aka me, is leaving in ten seconds flat so get your arses downstairs!”

Margaret smirked. “Your vocabulary ain’t better than me own.”

Sherlock heaved a calming breath. Fucking hag. But it was true. Since meeting the Watsons, he had become pretty familiar with swearing. His mum wouldn’t be happy. 

The five Watsons Sherlock needed to take to school came trudging down the stairs. They spent most of their time in their rooms since Margaret had arrived. Even John, who enjoyed having breakfast with everyone, had left earlier for work. Perhaps because he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving Jane alone with Margaret. 

John had taken a job as manager of the club where he worked. It was more remunerative, but it took a lot of effort on John’s part. John was away almost every night, and even if he had never asked, that meant Sherlock needed to stay around as much as possible, because Margaret was dangerous. She didn’t have any concept of money, throwing it away like candy, and she was quite the lover of ecstasy and tequila. 

She bought presents to the kids by stealing John’s money whenever she could, and she drank with Frank every bloody night on the couch. They smoked crack in front of the kids and once John caught them having sex in the kitchen while Jane was sitting on the floor. 

Margaret was an explosive, destructive force. 

But apparently, judging by the state of her this morning, her batteries were running low. Sherlock knew she didn’t take her meds. It wouldn’t take much before her euphoric phase ended. 

Harriet sat in the front seat, while Susan (with Gabe on her lap), Casper and Rosie sat in the back. 

“William?” Rosie called, halfway through a monologue about Roy Johnson and his beautiful brown eyes. 

“Mmh?”

“Have you thought about a present for John’s birthday?”

Crap. Sherlock hadn’t. He had thought of the party, with Irene and Janine, before the Margaret mess. But not of a present. 

He was an idiot.

 

* * *

 

John hated to think he was getting close to twenty years of age. When he thought about it, he felt claustrophobic. Twenty years in the estate, even more to come. It was terrifying. John didn’t dream of exotic places, didn’t dream of long travels or some shit like that. John just… he didn’t want to live his whole life in that fucking dump. 

But he had to. And if there was an adjective John liked to use to describe himself, well, that was  _ stoic _ . He wasn’t going to weep because his life was shit. He was going to suck it up and fuck what he wished.

Plus, now he had William, whom he was starting to trust a little too much, to love a little bit too desperately. 

“John, stop daydreaming, someone puked in room 32!” 

John thought of that night with William in a hotel room, of soft sheets and softer kisses, and went to clean up room 32. 

John just hoped they weren’t going to celebrate his birthday this year. He wasn’t in the mood.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had never really cared about birthdays. But John was different, and to Sherlock’s eyes, John deserved everything Sherlock could give him. John was perfect, in Sherlock’s eyes, and he’d well damn give him the perfect birthday party. 

Nothing fancy, mind you, John wouldn’t have approved of that. Just a couple of banners, alcohol and some weed. That was all. Susan, Harry, and Casper had bought him a jumper, while Rosie had mixed in a jar some chemical compounds Sherlock had given her. Her idea was to gift John a colour. Gabe had made a drawing of them all together (Sherlock included in the family), while Irene and Janine had bought him three nights of free entrance in a gay bar for him and Sherlock. 

Sherlock had bought the ‘Happy Birthday’ banner, the cake, the alcohol, and helped the kids with their gifts.

He hadn’t thought about  _ his  _ present, though. After he dropped the kids at their respective schools, he drove to the centre. 

What could he buy John? 

He walked around for a bit, until he found it. Sherlock smiled. 

It was a nice leather wallet, compact but fairly capacious. It reminded Sherlock of John. 

Plus, it was a reminder of their first meeting. Sherlock couldn’t not buy it, hell the price. It was for John.

 

When he arrived at John’s house (to check on Jane and Margaret), he found Jane crying on the floor, face down, Margaret nowhere to be seen. Panicked, Sherlock ran to Jane and picked her up, checking her over with one quick glance. She had a red mark on her forehead, as if she’d fallen face down on the floor and no one had picked her up, checked on her, or applied any ice. Boiling with rage, Sherlock hugged Jane to him and tromped up the stairs. 

“Margaret!” He howled, but no one answered. 

Jane kept wailing, her little arms clinging to Sherlock with desperation. 

Sherlock threw open all the doors, to find Margaret lying on John’s bed, under at least five blankets, her back to the door. 

“Margaret,” Sherlock called again, “You fucking reckless cunt, Jane could have seriously injured herself!”

Margaret still didn’t answer, so Sherlock called her name again. And again. And again. 

“Answer me at least!” He yelled. 

“Leave me alone!” Screamed Margaret back, her tone oozing with exasperation and tears that she was holding back. 

Only then Sherlock recognized it. He had felt it too. 

Margaret was in her depressive phase. 

“Get up.” Sherlock said. “Your kids need you to get up. Get up.”

Margaret stayed silent. 

Sherlock sighed. There was nothing to do there. He shut the door and went downstairs. 

Jane was still crying, so he shushed her and prepared some ice for her. She screamed when she felt the cold of the ice on her bump, and Sherlock felt like the worst person on earth for making her wail like that. 

She kicked him and tried to get free, the ice clearly bothering her more than Sherlock had anticipated. He stopped pressing and threw it in the sink along with the towel, and held Jane tightly to his chest. 

“Jane, Jane, Jane…” he whispered soothingly, rocking her back and forth. Eventually she stopped crying, and Sherlock heaved a relieved breath. He wasn’t feeling so guilty anymore. 

The bump was huge, though. 

He dialled John’s number. 

“William? What is it, I’m elbows deep in puke, be quick.”

“It’s a code purple.”

Silence. 

“I’m coming home.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“ _ It’s a code purple _ .”

Code purple, the term John used to use to avoid saying too much in front of Casper and Rosie when they were younger. Code purple, the word that used to make him go pale as a sheet when whispered over the phone by Harry or Susan. 

Code purple: Margaret is suicidal. 

John jumped on the train and wished it could go faster. He needed to do something. 

Get some lithium, for example. Where the fuck would he get meds in time? Margaret was a time bomb. Her depressive phases were short and explosive. It only took her a few days before it was time to hide the knives. 

He ran to Janine’s workplace as fast as he could. 

He entered the nursing home and started looking for his friend, almost frantic. 

“Janine!” He called when he spotted her, bent over a little old lady on a bed. 

She turned, a frown on her tanned face. “John?”

“Margaret, code purple, need lithium,” he panted. 

Janine gasped, before gripping John by the elbow to usher him out of the room. 

“I don’t have any,” she whispered in the empty corridor. 

John felt cold panic wash over him. “You gave me some last time,” he tried, but she shook her head.

“We had a bipolar patient,” Janine explained. She bit her lip, “I’m sorry, John.”

Numbly, John nodded. He couldn’t breathe. Margaret was going to do it again. And he couldn’t do anyth-

Suddenly, an idea came to him. A mad idea, but it was  _ something _ . 

“Thank you, Janine, see you later,” he said, turning on his heels and running out, not bothering to wait for Janine to bid him goodbye. 

John took the tube again, directed home this time, but once there he ran to the opposite direction, and towards Joe’s favourite pub. 

He walked in like a fury and sat at the table where Joe was sipping on a glass of what looked like whiskey. 

“Son,” he greeted. “Hey, boys!” He called then, “Free shots for everyone, my responsible son has joined me for a drink!”

All the men and women in the pub exalted, while the poor bartender sighed. 

“Joe I need some lithium for Margaret,” John said quickly, “Can you get some?”

Joe eyed him warily. “Your mother’s not sick, and if she doesn’t want to t-take her meds, well, then it’s her choice. Bloody d-doctors! They think we are gonna pay their expensive, shitty medications, well, s-suck my dick is what I tell ‘em!”

John sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Joe,” He started, “William says she’s suicidal.”

John paled a bit at that. “Well, your b-boyfriend knows shit about her.”

“William is very good at observing, and we both knew that after a high like the one she just had it was only time. You know that the higher she goes, the harder she falls.”

“Ooh, we have a philosopher!” Joe mocked him. 

“C’mon Joe, remember last time.”

Joe downed his whiskey. “I’ll see what I can do.” 

John nodded. “See you tonight with the stuff.”

 

* * *

 

 

John didn’t like to think that he was  _ tending  _ to sodding Margaret, but it was what he was doing. He made her soup, changed her sheets, slept on the couch to leave her his room. He gave her the lithium and checked the room for sharp objects or other things that could be used as ropes. 

The more he told himself he was doing it for the kids, the more he knew it wasn’t true. Much as to he hated to admit it, he loved Margaret and was worried for her. She was his mum. 

Today it was his birthday. 

Margaret had got up out of bed for the first time in a week, and had sat at the table with the others. Everyone was there, even Janine and Irene and (probably for the free food) Joe. 

William had made a special dinner, and had hung a banner. He had bought a cake and John could see presents on the table. 

He hadn’t wanted to celebrate, but what Will had prepared was fine. More than fine, John thought. He needed a break. 

“We also have some alcohol for when the kids are in bed,” Janine whispered in his ears. 

He laughed, “God knows I need some.”

Janine smiled at him sadly, then started to playfully banter with Harriet in front of her. 

John turned to his right to glance at William, laughing at something Gabe said whilst feeding Jane. John loved him so much it was hard to breathe. 

He looked over at Casper and Rosie, talking with Susan, Joe holding Margaret’s hand on the table, Irene giggling at what Harry and Janine were saying. 

His family wasn’t perfect. But, perhaps, things were getting better. Perhaps. 

“I’m going to take some more water,” Margaret mumbled, her mouth dried out by the meds. 

She got up and into the kitchen, leaving the living room, where just for the occasion, a fairly long table had been placed. 

John was laughing when he heard the sound. 

The sound of someone falling to the ground. The sound of cutlery meeting the floor. 

All at once, everyone got up and ran to the kitchen. 

John froze in the doorway.

 

* * *

 

Margaret lay with her back against the kitchen counter, her wrists cut open, a pool of blood soaking her clothes. Sherlock was horrified. But he moved quickly, his blood cold. 

“Quick, give me towels,” he said, kneeling beside her. 

He was dimly aware of Irene calling the ambulance, Janine taking the kids away and Joe disappearing through the backdoor. 

All he was focused on was John, tamping down on his mother’s blood with a kitchen towel, his face a mask of almost indifference. 

It scared Sherlock. 

 

They all followed Margaret to the hospital. All of them, including Janine and Irene. The two of them looked after the kids, while Sherlock tried to make John speak. But the man wouldn’t. 

He just clung onto Sherlock’s hand for dear life and didn’t let go, not even when the doctors arrived and told them Margaret was stable. Not on the ride back home. Not at home. 

The kids were immediately sent to bed, even Harry and Susan. Janine and Irene offered to clean the table, while John and Sherlock went to clean up the blood. 

They filled a bucket with water and started scrubbing. 

“Those poor kids,” was all John said, before he started crying, leaning with his elbows on the bucket. 

“John,” Sherlock started, but John shushed him. He sniffled and then went on scrubbing, his face eyes bloodshot and his face taut. 

One hour later Janine and Irene were gone, and Sherlock and John were finished with the floor. 

John braced himself on the sink after emptying the last bucketful of water and blood. 

Sherlock came behind him, and he had barely touched his hips that John turned in his arms and pressed their lips together.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t a kiss. It was  _ breathing _ . Finally, for the first time since finding Margaret on the floor, John was breathing. They stayed like that, lips on lips, just inhaling and exhaling. 

John needed William closer, closer. He tangled his fingers in Will’s hair, and brought them closer, pressing his front to his. 

And still it wasn’t enough. 

After an endless beat, John separated from William and held his hand out. William took it without speaking, just like he had done when they were at his place in Montague Street. 

John guided him to the bedroom and shut the door behind them. William wasn’t speaking, and John couldn’t be more grateful. 

John brought his hands up and framed William’s face, before pecking his lips softly. Will opened his mouth to say something, but John shook his head no. 

He lifted Will’s shirt up, and leaned forward to kiss his sternum, and his stomach, and his navel. He kneeled in front of him and unbuttoned his jeans, slowly pulling them down, William’s clothed erection poking him in the cheek as he did. 

John leaned with his forehead on Will’s thigh and breathed in again. 

It was liberating. William’s scent, so familiar, was finally calming him down. 

John hooked his thumbs in Will’s boxer briefs and pulled them down as well. With all the reverence he could muster, he wrapped his lips around William’s cock. 

William hissed, tangling his hands in John’s hair, and John sighed in relief around his prick. He was finally feeling Will close. He closed his eyes and engulfed William’s prick as deep as he could, and  _ sucked _ . 

The pulling on his hair almost painful. He rested his hands on William’s hips, sliding with his tongue on his cock, tracing every vein, feeling the beautiful weight on his tongue, the head rubbing against his palate, and he was finally home, John could finally breathe… 

“John?” A tiny voice called. 

William and John pulled apart immediately, and William put his boxer briefs back on in a matter of seconds. 

“Come in, Rosie,” John called, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

Slowly, the door was pushed opened to reveal a tired-looking Rosie, her eyes puffed red and her cheeks tear-stained. Without saying a word, John sat on the bed and she ran in his arms. 

William came behind them and sat right behind John’s back, leaning with his forehead on John’s scapula, his hand on his hip. 

A few seconds later, Casper and Gabe appeared in the doorway, and they too ended in that awkward hug. 

John lay down on the bed, hugging Rosie and Gabe with his right arm, Casper with his left. William’s arm rested on the four of them.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock didn’t know what to do. 

In the days after the incident, John had started to cling on him a bit too much. Not that Sherlock minded, but it wasn’t like John. It wasn’t like John to call often when he wasn’t at the estate, to send so many texts and touching him all the time when they were together. 

Sherlock knew they were all shaken. Harry drank more than usual, while Susan barely spoke. The little ones were simply traumatised. They had seen everything, and had nightmares most of the nights, ending up sleeping in Sherlock and John’s bed in a big cuddle pile. 

They all refused to go and see Margaret. Sherlock couldn’t blame them. 

And on top of it all, Christmas was getting closer. Nine days to go, to be precise. 

Sherlock needed to grow a pair and tell John, but  _ it wasn’t the right moment. _ He tried to bargain more time with his family, failing miserably. Christmas was what he had promised. 

He sat on the new couch in the Watsons’ living room watching Masha and the Bear with Gabe and Jane when he decided that he was going to tell John. 

_ Yes,  _ he thought,  _ tomorrow I’ll tell him. _

 

* * *

 

Much as to his brother liked to think it, Gregory wasn’t an idiot. Had he been one, Mycroft would have never fallen for him. 

And Gregory, Sergeant in training at the MET, could put two and two together. He knew that the family with seven kids and no parents was John Watson’s. 

This was Mycroft’s train of thought as he walked around the estate, his umbrella dangling from his elbow. Where the hell was Sherlock living, for heaven’s sakes? The place was a real dump. Mycroft wriggled his nose in disdain, looking around. He could see people spying from their windows and watching him warily. 

Well, the feeling was mutual. 

Gregory put his hand on his arm, cocking his head. “That’s the house. Are you sure this is a good idea?” 

Mycroft huffed. He was just trying to do what was best for his brother. 

“Yes, Gregory,” he replied through gritted teeth.

His fiancé (yeah, his stomach still had that funny reaction when he thought that word) nodded. “I trust you,” he said. 

Mycroft smiled at him and leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. 

“Let’s go.”

Gregory walked in front of him and knocked. John answered the door, Jane on his hip, looking tired and quite busy. Like usual. 

“Greg?” John asked, visibly puzzled. He looked behind him and gave Mycroft a very confused glance. 

“What’s going on?” 

Gregory sighed. 

“John, meet my fiancé, Mycroft Holmes. He… has something to tell you.”

 

 

* * *

 

(Tue, 12:42pm, message left on the voice mail)

“ _ Hello  _ Sherlock,  _ it’s John here. Yeah, still John Watson. I just wanted to kindly say FUCK YOU!” _

 

* * *

 

Sherlock came screaming like a fury in the Holmes living room. Such a drama queen. 

“What have you done?!” He yelled, pointing his finger at Mycroft. 

Mycroft kept sipping on his tea, “Just what was in your interest, brother mine.”

“You meddling  _ prick _ !” Sherlock roared. 

“We had a deal, Mycroft, a fucking, rotting deal!”

Mycroft took one last sip and then looked at Sherlock straight in the eye. 

“We hadn’t. I found your dealer. You’re going more often, Marcus says.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw. “You had no right,  _ no right… _ ”

“Yes, I did!” Mycroft finally snapped. It took him a full three seconds to regain his composure. An eternity. 

“Sherlock, I didn’t tell John about the drugs. Just about your real name. He’ll forgive you eventually. And meanwhile you can get clean. This is the best solution for you.”

“Fuck you,” Sherlock spat out, “It’s not your life, not one of your sodding schemes to invade Korea or I don’t know. This is my life, Mycroft.”

“And you’re my baby brother, Sherlock. I will always look after you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW** for attempted suicide and self harm. 
> 
> I myself have been on suicide watch just in the last few months, so writing this chapter has proven a very difficult task. Hope you enjoyed anyway, let me know in the comments! :) 
> 
> See you next time xx


	10. Slow Fix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early chapter, folks! Yay
> 
> As always, a super duper THANK YOU goes to my super supportive, super precise beta [mafm](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mafm/pseuds/mafm)! 
> 
> Enjoy! :)
> 
> Oh, and happy Valentine's Day my lovelies ❤️ xx

_“You think I’m gonna leave?”_

_“Everyone leaves.”_

_“Not me.”_

_“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”_

_“John, John, please look at me. I am going to say something I have never, ever said to any other human being before, never. I love you, John Watson.”_

 

John gritted his teeth. Stupid, _stupid_ John.  

He passed a hand over his face, trying to hold back hot tears of rage. He was going to kill Willia- No. Sherlock. That was what Greg’s boyfriend had said. That his name was William Sherlock Scott Holmes and everyone had always called him Sherlock, and that he was fucking rich and had escaped from his home.

What a fucking spoiled brat. And John had _trusted_ him with his siblings, had trusted him with his heart. But Sherlock Holmes was just a liar. A rotting liar, and John _hated_ him.

It was hard for John to trust people, that was why he had so few friends. And yet, he had allowed Sherlock to grow on him in only a few months, had allowed him to earn his fucking trust, to creep into his life, into his family.

John had never felt so stupid in his whole life.

He stared at his phone, where on the screen he could read ‘16 missed calls and 23 texts’, all from William- Fuck. From _Sherlock_.

John wasn’t going to answer. Sherlock sodding Holmes could rot in sodding hell for all he cared. What kind of person lies to you about their name for so fucking long? A fucking psychopath, that’s who.

Now, now, John wasn’t being fair. He sighed.

Sherlock was a good person, he knew that.

No, fuck it, he didn’t give one flying fuck about how good _William_ had been. John might’ve been in love with William Scott, but he _despised_ Sherlock Holmes.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock growled in annoyance and threw his phone against the wall of his room.

He was itching everywhere, he needed a fix _now._ But his parents wouldn’t let him out of the house, and he needed to think, he needed to get John back. He needed John, he needed John, he needed cocaine, cocaine, c ocaine…

Sherlock shook his head, trying to get rid of that thought. No.

The rehab clinic was full, every junkie in town going there for Christmas and New Year’s resolutions. Mycroft had booked a place for the 15th of January, a date that Sherlock dreaded to his core. He was already showing withdrawal symptoms, his skin too tight for his body, his mind too large and too full of thoughts.

And he needed John. God, he missed him so badly. Him, and the kids. Sherlock missed them all terribly.

All he wanted was to go back to the estate and fall to his knees, beg John to take him back, hug all the kids to him. He wanted to experiment with Rosie and Gabe, play Mario Karts with Casper, talk with Sue about physics, have a chat with Harry, hold Jane to him for a while. He wanted to feel John’s lips on his skin, their bodies coming together, he wanted cocaine- STOP!

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair and pulled, screaming. He was a fucking junkie, and he had messed up, and why couldn’t he keep anything that was beautiful, why did he have to ruin everything, why, why…

Mycroft walked in without knocking. “Will you stop yelling?” He said in his most annoying voice, the one that was cool and detached, and that always unnerved Sherlock.

“Go away,” Sherlock replied, his voice hoarse and trembling.

“I see your symptoms are worsening,” Mycroft observed.

“I can wait until the fifteenth, I don’t need your help.”

“I could call in a few favours.”

“No, you’ve already done enough, don’t you think?”

Mycroft sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“This about John again?”

Sherlock glared. “You didn’t respect our deal.”

Mycroft glared back. “ _You_ didn’t respect it in the first place. You said you _used_ once a week, but this isn’t quite right isn’t it? I talked to your friend Marcus, and he told me you saw him twice last week.”

“Just last week!” Sherlock roared. “I could manage, I had already planned on how to tell John, how dare you even think you were right doing what you did?”

Mycroft looked away, worrying his bottom lip. “I… I worry about you. Constantly.”

“You ruined my life,” Sherlock growled, “So thank you for your worries. Now leave.”

Mycroft threw him a half-sad, half-angry look and then left, shutting the door behind him.

Sherlock went to retrieve his phone and called John again, knowing full well he wouldn’t answe-

“Stop calling me,” John’s angry voice answered.

Sherlock gasped, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. “John,” he whispered.

He heard a hurt sigh from the other end of the phone, then John spoke again. “What do you want?”

Sherlock hadn’t really thought on what to tell John if he’d actually answered the phone.

“I… Just explain.”

John let out a disbelieving huff, “Explain what? How you lied about everything since day one?”

Sherlock panicked. “No! Not everything. Never everything. I… I love you. I’ve never-”

“Meet me at the pub near my house tonight at eight. Last chance to hear your side of the story. I promise nothing.”

Then John hung up, and Sherlock sagged.

 

* * *

 

What the fuck had he just done? John slammed his hand on the drawer and took a deep breath.

Then he laughed bitterly. He really was an idiot.

He grabbed a hoodie and ran downstairs, yelling at Harry to look after Jane, then he was out of the door and at Janine and Irene’s house.

“I just did something terribly stupid,” He said in lieu of a greeting, stomping inside with murderous force.

Janine and Irene both looked at him from where they were, starkers on the couch, in some weird sex position in front of a camera.

“Turn off that bloody thing and listen to me,” John demanded, not at all thrown off but their nakedness.

Janine sighed, leaning forward to turn the camera off and cover both her and Irene with a blanket.

“Come on,” She said, beckoning John over.

John sat down beside them, burying his face in his hands.

“Is this about the dickhead?”

John let out a broken breath, “Yeah.”

Irene got up, not at all ashamed by her nudity, and murmured, “I’m gonna fix us a cup of tea, love.” Then she disappeared in the kitchen.

“Tell me everything,” Janine said, holding out her hands to cup John’s.

“He… he kept calling me and I finally answered and I wanted to tell him to fuck off and vanish but I somehow ended up asking him to meet me tonight.”

Janine sucked her lips over her teeth and said nothing.

“What is it?” John spat angrily.

“I mean, there’s a reason why you answered. You could have kept ignoring him.”

“He wouldn’t stop!”

“You asked him to meet you.”

“I… what do you want me to tell you, that I still love him so much I can’t breathe? That I miss him more than I’ve missed anyone in my life and I just want him to explain because I can’t lose him, not him too?”

Janine let out a sad sigh. “No, John, I don’t want you to tell me this. I want you to tell _him_.”

Right on cue, Irene appeared in her silk gown, two mugs of steaming tea in her hands. She handed one to Janine and one to John, then sat down beside John.

“I think you did right,” She said.

John pinched his eyes shut.

“I like Will- _Sherlock_ ; I bet he has a good explanation for what he did.” Irene continued.

“I would never forgive him,” Janine added, “But I’m not you, and you’re a better person than I could ever be, John.”

John took a sip of the tea and nodded, his jaw set.

“So just because I’m a ‘good person’ I should let someone do whatever they please? Use me? No thank you.”

“Oh, come on, John!” Irene exclaimed, pinching his arm.

“What the fuck?!”

“John,” Irene murmured seriously, “The guy loves you. That’s plain as day. And it’s not like he has killed someone or anything. He’s just-”

“Lied about his whole identity since day one, everyone does it now and then, especially to the person they love!” John roared, clenching his fists at his sides.

“Fine, do what the bloody hell you want!” Irene growled back, crossing her arms over her chest, pouting like a child.

Janine let out a long-suffering breath, and John glared at Irene.

“Ta very much.”

Irene threw her arms in the air and left. “He’s _your_ best friend, not mine, deal with him,” She called as she climbed the stairs.

“Nice choice of a girlfriend,” John huffed, and Janine laughed softly.

“Fiancée,” She corrected.

John’s eyes flew open. “You two are getting married?!” He exclaimed, and Janine chuckled again, nodding.

“Janine, you tart, we we going  to tell him together!” Irene shouted from upstairs and both John and Janine burst out laughing.

“Shit, congratulations!” John smiled, hugging Janine tightly to his chest. Then he blushed beet red, scratching the back of his neck. “And I’m here whining like a baby while we should be celebrating.”

Janine shook her head. “Talk to Sherlock, then we’ll celebrate..”

 

* * *

 

 

Seeing John again, even when looking thunderous sitting on a stool in a shabby pub, made Sherlock’s heart stutter and jump in his chest.

“John,” he choked out, unable to even _breathe_ properly. He needed to get a grip, as soon as possible.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John spat out, chugging his bottle of vodka.

“I needed something strong to do this,” He explained, when Sherlock looked from John to the bottle with wide eyes.

“Right,” Sherlock answered, and John nodded, before taking another long sip.

“You came to explain. Go on, explain, then,” John mumbled, feigning indifference. Sherlock could see how angry he was, though.

“I… My brother has many connections, and my family is very wealthy. Had I used my name, the name by which everyone knew me, my family would have found me in no time, and at the beginning you were supposed to be just a one night stand, so I-”

“Your explanation is starting in the most charming of ways,” John said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock took a deep breath and didn’t let John’s interruption deter him.

“But then you became so much more, John, and… It’s hard for me to talk about this stuff, so I’m not gonna be very.. What I mean is… I had never felt anything quite as what I felt- what I _feel_ for you, and I was scared had you found out where I came from, that I don’t know, you would have left me and I would have been alone all over again. I never minded being alone, and I used to think that being alone protected me, but you changed everything, and I was _scared_ , John, and I can never convey to you  how sorry I am, please forgive me.”

He had said everything so quickly that now he was panting, and he blushed embarrassed when he realised how stupid and vulnerable he had sounded.

John sighed deeply, chugging the last drops of liquid and slamming the bottle.

“I have trust issues,” He suddenly said, and Sherlock peered at him from under a furrowed brow. John was drunk.

“I don’t have many friends.  And the people I trust, outside my family, are just Irene, Janine, Greg, and _you_. And you betrayed my trust deeply, Sherlock. I don’t know if you can earn it back.”

Sherlock nodded sheepishly at the table, his throat hurting with the effort of holding  back his tears.

“Nevertheless,” John murmured, and Sherlock’s head snapped up so quickly his neck ached, “Despite my better judgement, I still lo- I’m still fond of you, and I wouldn’t mind giving you a second chance.”

Sherlock held his breath. “You’re giving me a chance to earn your trust back?”

John sighed deeply. “Yes, and I don’t even know why I’m doing it. I have some rules, though.”

Sherlock nodded with enthusiasm, “Yes, yes, to everything.”

“Rule one, we go slow. You don’t come back to living with us and behave like my wife. Rule two, complete honesty. So, if you have some other secret to tell me, here’s your chance.”

Sherlock thought of his stash of cocaine, of the rehab where he was going in less than a month. He felt ashamed. And he knew that complete honesty was now a rule, but he couldn’t tell John that he was a junkie, just like his father.

“No,” He said, “You know everything about me.”

“If you’re lying to me, between us it’s gonna be over for ever, Sherlock,” John growled. Sherlock swallowed around the lump in his throat. He was risking a lot.

Was it worth it?

“I’m not lying.”

John nodded at him and then said, “I want to meet your family. And the kids are coming with me.”

Sherlock smiled weakly at him, his heart still hammering in his chest after his lie.

“Come for Christmas,” He offered.

John nodded again and then silence fell, awkward and heavy.

“Fuck up again and I’ll kill you,” John growled, but there was a happy smile playing at his lips.

A spontaneous laugh bubbled up to Sherlock’s lips, and the both of them started giggling.

“Stop giggling, I’m still mad at you!” John exclaimed through fits of laughter, and that only made Sherlock laugh more.

Everything was fine.

Everything was _fine_.

“Come on now,” John smiled at Sherlock, “The kids miss you terribly and want to say hi.”

 

Sherlock didn’t think that going back to the estate would have felt so good. He took in with a deep breath everything he could see, an almost-smile on his face.

John chuckled. “You went to Eton, and here you are sighing in relief to be back in a council estate.”

Sherlock conceded the point by cocking his head. “You would’ve hated Eton, too.”

John opened the door to his house. “Welcome back, Sherlock,” he said warmly.

As if summoned, Rosie ran down the stairs and flew into Sherlock’s arms.

“Will!” She yelled. Then she blushed. “Oh sorry, John told us you’re Sherlock now. That’s a weird name,” She wrinkled up her nose.

Sherlock laughed. “I missed you too, Rosie.”

She grinned broadly and leant forward to kiss his cheek soundly.

“Casper! Harry! Sue! Gabe! Come and see who’s here!” She yelled then, jumping excitedly on her feet.

The four summoned Watsons came trudging down the stairs, and Gabe and Casper immediately went and hugged Sherlock.

Sherlock bent down to kiss Casper’s head and pick Gabe up, making the child giggle and yell, “Liam-yam!”

“It’s Sherlock now.”

“Sh’wock!” Gabe shouted, undeterred. Sherlock kissed him on the cheek out of pure affection.

Then he looked up and to Susan and Harriet, who were looking at him with twin disapproving expressions.

He implored them with his eyes, and eventually they both smiled softly and walked up to him to hug him, Gabe smashed between the three of them.

Sherlock was overwhelmed.

Never had he ever felt more at home, more loved, than with these people. Sherlock loved them all of them so much, he was afraid his heart might implode.

Sherlock watched distractedly as John disappeared into the kitchen, focused as he was on trying not to cry.

“Put us to bed?” Rosie asked him with a tired smile. Sherlock hadn’t realised how late it was on a school night.

Sherlock nodded, and still holding Gabe in his arms, he took Rosie by the hand and climbed the stairs with Casper by his side.

Rosie and Gabe clambered on their shared bed together, and Sherlock covered them up. Casper sat cross-legged on the bed, while Sherlock sat in front of the three kids.

Susan and Harry watched from the door.

“Read us a story?” Rosie asked, and Sherlock complied, feeling so happy he thought he was in a very vivid dream.

 

* * *

 

John couldn’t watch as Sherlock and the kids hugged in the living room. It was too much.

Plus, he was a bit drunk, and he hadn’t eaten before leaving, so he headed to the kitchen to fix himself a sandwich.

He heard as Sherlock climbed up the stairs, and sighed in relief when he found himself alone.

A lot had happened in the last few days. And John had reached his limit. He was just tired. Tired of everything.

Suddenly, he didn’t know how much time later, Sherlock appeared behind him.

And John couldn’t resist anymore.

He turned and gripped his hips, kissing him deeply, reaching up on his tiptoes, flushing their bodies together.

“Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock,” He whispered against the boy’s lips, just to get used to the name. Sherlock.

He was still angry as fuck, but good god was this wonderful. It was ridiculous how perfectly their bodies fit together.

“John,” Sherlock whispered slowly, reverently, and John loved him. He hated him and he loved him.

He grabbed Sherlock by his hips and spun them around, pushing Sherlock against the kitchen counter.

“Ah,” Sherlock hissed in pain, and John slowed down.

He undressed the upper half of Sherlock body before licking a wet trail from his navel to his clavicle, where he bit with intent.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice was rough and deep, and sent bolts of pleasure straight to John’s cock.

“John, let’s go to bed.”

John shook his head. “Jane,” He explained, and Sherlock shot a lingering look to the ceiling.

“I haven’t said hi to her.”

God, John loved him and hated him so much.

“Take your bloody trousers off, I can’t do all the work here,” he complained, just because he couldn’t tell Sherlock neither of those things.

“I thought you wanted to go slow,” Sherlock said and yep, yeah, ta very much, John thought.

“ _You_ go slow, I do what the bloody hell I like,” He grumbled, taking his trousers and pants off.

Then he pointed at the kitchen counter with a jerk of his chin.

“Bend over,” He commanded. Sherlock shivered, so violently that it made John smile.

“Aah, someone has a bit of a kink, hasn’t he?”

Sherlock bit on his lower lip and lowered his gaze, his face flushed, his hands fumbling with the fly of his trousers.

John laughed softly, leaning forward to help Sherlock.

“Here, let daddy help you.”

“Stop,” Sherlock growled, but his pupils were blown wide.

“Would you rather I am your captain in the army? ‘Bend over, soldier Holmes’?”

Sherlock shot daggers at him as John helped him shrug out of his trousers and pants.

“You’re so not funny it’s sad.”

“I find it funny, my pretty little boy.”

Sherlock’s cock gave an interested twitch and John laughed. Sherlock glared at him a little more before he started laughing along.

“No, but seriously, bend over, I missed fucking your pretty arse.”

“Aye captain,” Sherlock snickered, before turning and leaning with his elbows on the kitchen counter.

John remembered just then they hadn’t any lube.

“Wait,” he said, and ran to the living room, where he found the bottle hidden in between the couch cushions, right where he and Sherlock had put it last time.

“Here’s daddy,” he said with a grin as he walked back to the beautiful sight that was Sherlock, legs spread and bent over his kitchen counter.

“I said stop, oh my god!” Sherlock whined.

John giggled and then squirted some lube on his left hand.

“Relax now,” he whispered, inserting the first digit.

It was like their almost-first time.

The two of them, in that damn kitchen, the mood lighting, or lack thereof, and the need to get off.

How much had changed since then.

John inserted another finger and crooked the two, searching for Sherlock’s prostate.

Sherlock moaned softly when John found the spot, so John kept teasing at it.

Then John fell to his knees, spreading Sherlock’s arse cheeks with his hands. He leaned forward and buried his face in Sherlock’s arse, breathing in deeply before darting out his tongue to lap at Sherlock’s arsehole.

Sherlock gasped and his legs started to tremble. John decided that he didn’t want to fuck Sherlock that night. He wanted to _wreck_ him.

He kept lapping and licking at Sherlock’s entrance, fucking him with his tongue, working him open.

He could hear Sherlock’s fast breaths and broken moans above him, and they made John smile smugly.

“Can you come from this only?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded frantically.

“Yes, no, I mean, I don’t know, please don’t stop, yes, yes, yes…”

John smiled in between Sherlock’s arse cheeks, and set out to work steadily. He first circled Sherlock’s tight ring of muscles, and then shoved his tongue all the way inside, to then pull out. In, out. In, out.

He also worked with his whole mouth, and he kept moving it until his jaw ached and saliva ran copiously down his chin.

But Sherlock’s legs were trembling, his hips stuttering, so John kept going, using his hands to knead the soft flesh of Sherlock’s plump arse.

Ten seconds flat later, Sherlock was coming with a muffled shout.

And John had never been more aroused in his life.

He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and pulled him down, to then pin him to the floor by his wrists.

“You came just from me rimming you,” John growled, rolling his hips on Sherlock’s thigh, seeking friction.

“God, you’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

John took his cock in his hand, “Can I come on you, please?” He asked, his hips already moving of their own volition, his thigh barely managing to keep him kneeling where he was straddling Sherlock’s waist.

“Please,” Sherlock pleaded, and that was all it took John to orgasm. He came in a white wave of pleasure, and the world disappeared for a whole three seconds.

“Fuck,” John said, falling down on Sherlock.

“You can say that,” Sherlock chuckled. John joined him.

“C’mon, let’s clean up before one of the kids comes downstairs for a glass of water.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really unsure about this chapter because I was scared that John's and Sherlock's feelings wouldn't come through in the right way, so please leave a comment to let me know your opinion! 
> 
> See you in two weeks! :)


	11. Fathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I'm so sorry about the delay - first I went to Finland to meet my best internet friend, and when I got back I was hit by a major writing block ughh
> 
> So sorry if this is short :/
> 
> As always a huge thanks to [mafm](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mafm/pseuds/mafm) for beta'ing :)
> 
> Enjoy! :) xx

_Thursday, 24t_ _h_ _December, evening_

 

**Greg**

Greg was fairly good friends with John. They met up for a pint from time to time, and Greg always took Joe back to the Watsons, instead of taking him in for the night.

Despite all this, he had never met all the Watson siblings. He had met Harry once, when he had arrested her for underage drinking, and Susan, who had come to pick her up, and begging him to please never tell John.

He had met Rosie and Jane, but never Gabe, nor Casper. Well, actually he had met Gabe when Sherlock had brought him over at the Holmes, but never as a Watson.

Never, until tomorrow.

Tomorrow, all the seven Watsons will be sitting at the Holmes’ Christmas table, and Greg didn’t know what to think. Would it go all right? Would it be a disaster?

“More mashed potatoes, dear?” Violet asked with a smile, and Greg smiled back, snapping out of his thoughts.

“Yes, please.”

Greg looked around. Mycroft, eating slowly with  his poised manners, his parents doing the same. The polite, friendly silence, the quiet conversation.

Tomorrow, everything would be different.

Greg snickered in his glass of wine. He couldn’t wait.

 

**John**

“Are you sure you want to go? They’re truly, _truly_ awfu-”

“Sherlock, stop. Yes, Me and the kids are coming at yours for Christmas, full stop. Unless you are ashamed of us.”

Sherlock, sat on the couch he himself had bought, gaped at John dramatically.

“Why would I be ashamed of you?”

He sounded so sincere, John almost felt guilty. Almost.

“I don’t know, maybe because you literally shit £100 banknotes while we don’t earn that sum in a week?”

Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You’re ridiculous, I won’t take that bait.”

John sighed, passing a hand through his hair.

“We’re coming, no more discussing.”

Sherlock bit his pouty lower lip, till it became white. Then, he nodded.

“I’m not my parents, nor my brother, John,” he murmured.

“If we were like our parents, I’d pretty much be fucked up, wouldn’t I?”

Sherlock huffed a laugh, “Well, you’re a bit fucked up.”

John elbowed him. “Shut up.”

 

* * *

 

 _Thursday, 25_ _th_ _December, 06:00am_

 

**Rosie**

Christmas! Finally! Christmas! Rosie couldn’t wait to see what Sherlock and John had bought for her. She knew Santa didn’t exist. John had never lied to her about him, always letting her know that the presents she received were from everyone and well-earned, and not gifted from some magical man in the sky.

Rosie ran to John’s room, and started jumping on the bed where her brother and his boyfriend were still sleeping.

“John! Sherlock! John! Sherlock! John! Sherlock!”

She shouted until John groaned and cracked one eye open to look at her. Sherlock just burrowed his face deeper in the pillow.

Rosie jumped on him and pried his eyelids open with her fingers.

“Wake up! It’s Christmas! I want to see my present!”

Sherlock smiled then.

“Presents, you mean.”

Presents? More than the usual one?

“Huh?”

Sherlock’s smile broadened.

“Why don’t you go see yourself?”

It couldn’t be true! More than one present! Oh god!

Rosie ran downstairs with a huge grin, knocking on her siblings’ doors to wake them up. Didn’t they know it was Christmas?

Downstairs, beside Joe’s sleeping form, was the Christmas tree, and underneath it, _tons_ of presents! Rosie kneeled in front of them, gaping at the colourful boxes and ribbons.

She heard footsteps behind her, so she turned. Sherlock and John, who was holding Jane on his hip, were smiling down at her.

“I need to call the others,” Rosie breathed, then ran up the stairs again.

She had already knocked, but no one would get up. She knew what to do.

She went to her room and retrieved her firecrackers, and placed them in the middle of the corridor. Then she snuck into Harry’s room and took her lighter.

She lit the firecrackers and ran down the stairs, laughing.

“Rosie, what have you do-” John couldn’t finish his sentence that a loud series of BOOM BOOM BOOM echoed through the house.

Someone upstairs screamed, while Sherlock laughed, Jane looked confused and John utterly unamused.

“Rosie,” John scolded, but she could see he was trying hard not to laugh.

She smiled innocently.

“Rosie!” Harry yelled, sounding thunderous. Laughing, Rosie hid behind the kitchen counter, waiting for the others to get downstairs.

She peered from around the counter, and first saw Gabe, running towards the presents with a huge grin, just to trip over Joe and fall.

Then came Casper, all bleary eyes and red hair, looking incredibly tired.

Eventually, Sue and Harry came trudging down the stairs, Sue laughing, Harry looking so mad that Rosie felt a little scared.

“Where are you, crazy monkey?” She growled, and Rosie giggled, thus revealing her hiding behind the counter. Harry trumped towards her, and Rosie let out a small delighted scream before starting running around the house, Harry in her stride. Eventually Harry tackled her to the couch, and started to tickle her, until Rosie was begging with tears in her eyes, breathless with laughter.

“Pwesntz! Pwesntz!” Gabe yelled, and everyone sat around the Christmas tree, and together, opened their boxes.

 

* * *

 

 _Thursday, 25t_ _h_ _December, 12:00am_

 

**Sherlock**

“You-you live here?” John stuttered, staring wide-eyed at Holmes manor.

“Used to,” Sherlock mumbled back, passing his tongue over his upper teeth.

All the seven Watsons gaped at him, looking back and forth from Sherlock to the house.

“This is a fucking castle!” Harry exclaimed, and Susan nodded.

“Just, how rich are you, exactly?”

Sherlock huffed, and the kids giggled.

“Sh’wock! Sh’wock!” Gabe yelled, grabbing his sleeve and pulling. Sherlock lowered his gaze, and Gabe said, “Up,” whilst reaching up with his arms.

Sherlock picked him up and placed the kid on his hip, before taking a deep breath and ringing the doorbell.

Claire, the maid, opened immediately.

“Mr. Sherlock, it’s a pleasure to have you back,” she said warmly, and Sherlock smiled faintly at her. He shouldered past her and hung his and Gabe’s jackets in the foyer, prompting the others to do the same.

Right on cue, his mother appeared in the doorway.

“Hello everyone, I’m Violet,” she grinned, barely able to suppress her enthusiasm, almost childlike.

John stepped forward and grabbed her hand.

“I’m so glad to finally meet you,” Violet continued, and oh Christ, her eyes were misty. Sherlock had never felt more embarrassed.

John blushed, saying, “Likewise, ma’am.”

Violet flapped a hand around. “No ma’am bullshit here, call me Violet.”

Sherlock gaped. His mum had just _sworn_? The world was probably ending.

John let out a nervous giggle, then set out to introduce the six younger Watsons.

When he was done, all of them followed Violet in the dining room, where Mycroft, Siger, and Greg were waiting, standing behind their chairs.

Such politeness, Sherlock thought. It was damn embarrassing. What would John think of him?

“Welcome,” Siger said with a kind smile, aimed mostly at John. Mycroft nodded in their direction, while Greg just exclaimed, “Oi, John, you alright?”

John smiled at Greg and nodded, then all the Watsons took place at the table.

Claire and the other maids waltzed in with the food, and lunch began.

 

**Siger**

The Watsons were boisterous. They talked vivaciously with each other, passing the food to one another with loud shouts like, “Hey, shithead, pass the chicken!” or, “Oi, midget, pass us that French-shit thing.”

Mycroft kept tsk’ing in disapproval, shaking his head to the plate, failing to notice that the girl with the nose piercing (Harry?) was mocking him every time he did.

Siger would have expected Violet to be appalled, but instead his wife kept smiling in her napkin, each and every time she caught the sight of her youngest son laughing with his new family.

Because, much as it pained Siger to admit it, _that_ was Sherlock’s new family. It was clear in the way Sherlock’s eye lingered on John, the way he tenderly fed the little girl in his lap, the genuine laughs that bubbled up to his lips.

Siger regretted not having been able to give Sherlock that serenity, that easy way of being himself. It was achingly obvious that the Watsons loved and accepted Sherlock for who he was, without asking him anything in return.

Siger just hoped that it would last. That Sherlock could keep this family with him.

After lunch, everyone moved to the living room, where a soft Christmas song was playing. The kids played with their new toys, that they had received that morning and brought with them, while the two teenagers sat on the couch texting furiously.

John and Sherlock instead sat on the wooden chairs near the decanter, along with Siger, Mycroft, Greg, and Violet.

They all filled their tumblers with scotch, and talked in soft tones for a while. About funny stories Greg and John shared, little Sherlock’s shenanigans, as told by Violet, and other amusing anecdotes that had everyone smile over their glasses.

Then suddenly Rosie Watson yelled, “John! Sherlock! There’s _Jingle Bell Rock_! We have to dance, like in _Mean Girls_!”

John laughed and got up, and Siger would have never expected that Sherlock would have giggled along and followed his boyfriend.

Rosie, Sue, Harry, John, and Sherlock stood in the middle of the living room, dancing a ridiculous choreography and laughing like mad.

Siger had never seen Sherlock laugh like that.

Casper was howling on the floor with laughter, while Gabe and Jane clapped their hands, and Siger felt tears prickle in his eyes. Sherlock was happy. Sherlock was _happy_.

And he knew they could have never made him this happy in a million years.

One look at his wife’s misty eyes, and he knew they were thinking the same thing.

 

**John**

He had been waiting all afternoon for that moment.

Sherlock was busy helping Rosie with her new microscope, Greg was talking with Gabe and Casper, Violet with Susan and Harry. Mycroft seemed scared by Jane, sleeping beatifically in his arms.

Slowly, he approached Siger.

“May I talk to you, sir?” John asked politely, taking a sip from his tumbler.

Siger raised an inquisitive eyebrow, but said nothing, and led John to his study.

Inside, they sat at the large wooden desk, facing each other.

Siger looked at him kindly, his dark grey eyes shining. “Pray tell me, what bothers you?”

John wasn’t surprised by the fact that Siger Holmes was as perspective as his son, so he gave the man a tight-lipped smiled and said, “I need legal assistance, and I was wondering whether you know someone who could work on my case pro bono.”

Siger hummed, and retrieved an elegant business card.

“This is a friend of mine, Harold Johnson. He went to Oxford with me, and he’s one of the best lawyers in London. He can help you get custody of your siblings.”

John chuckled. “Is it that obvious what I want?”

“To my wife, yeah. She told me this might be why you kept glancing at me this afternoon.”

“Does Sher-”

“She also told me to tell you that Sherlock doesn’t suspect anything. Yet.”

John heaved a long, relieved sigh.

“It’s not that I don’t want him to know, I’ll have to tell him eventually, but for now…”

“John.” Siger’s eyes bore into his. “I understand. He betrayed your trust deeply, and that is unforgivable. You’re not a bad person for needing some time.”

“He’d just be so invested in the whole thing, and I’m honestly not ready for…”

“John,” Siger called again, “It’s fine. I’m just an old moron, but I do understand a couple of things about matters of the heart. And where trust is betrayed, only time can heal.”

John really couldn’t fathom how Sherlock could have ever escaped from these people.

Yes, Mycroft was a bit of a prick, but he loved Sherlock deeply, it was plain as day. And Violet, oh-so-sweet Violet, she was so clever and observant, so poised and gentle. And Siger, who was so kind and simply a good, respectable man. Why did Sherlock run away from this?

Perhaps Sherlock was just a restless soul, never able to find his place. If so, did that  mean one day he would run away from the Watsons, too?

John shut his eyes, and tried not to think about what that all meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for every kudos and bookmark, and please leave a comment! :)


	12. Fair Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters keep getting shorter and shorter, I'm sorry. 
> 
> I blame this on a) my crippling writer's block and b) now we are close to the end and I know exactly what is going to happen.
> 
> Another thing; if you have to address me in the comments, use they/them and don't call me 'girl', etc., bc I'm non binary! No harm done, just fyi :) 
> 
> Lastly, TODAY IT'S MY BIRTHDAY SO YAY I'M HAPPY AND I'M PUBLISHING THIS AT 8:50am, WHEN I WAS BORN, EXACTLY 20 YEARS AGO. 
> 
> Enjoy! xx

For New Year’s Eve, Irene and Janine offered to look after the kids with the aid of Susan and Harry, leaving some time alone for John and Sherlock. They took tons of alcohol and got drunk in a motel room, to then have drunk, slow sex after midnight.

“Happy new year,” John had groaned in Sherlock’s ear, as he slid in and out of him.

“I love you,” had answered Sherlock, after which John had stopped speaking.

Two days later, Sherlock went back living with the Watsons. And had to deal with a major crisis.

“ _No one_ said yes?” Sherlock whispered, his tone half appalled and half upset.

“Exactly,” John said, his jaw set and his face tense. Worried and mad. Not a good mix for John Watson.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock nodded, “I’ll call Mycroft and ask him to fuck all those kids and their parents six ways from Sunday.”

John sighed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Christ, I can’t believe that no one wants to come to Casper’s birthday party. He’s an amazing kid.”

“He really is,” Sherlock agreed.

“I _can’t believe_ he doesn’t have any friends.”

Sherlock felt a shiver down his spine. “I didn’t have any friends before I met you, either,” Sherlock murmured, lowering his gaze.

He felt two strong, calloused fingers nudging his chin up.

“Hey,” John said with a sad smile, “Come here.”

Then John tilted his head up and kissed Sherlock full on the mouth, a quick, sweet peck that said ‘you’re not alone anymore’, and ‘I’m here now’.

He drew back and sighed again, passing a hand through his hair. “We need to do something about Casper.”

Sherlock smiled. “I know what to do.”

John groaned. “Please don’t involve your brother.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock’s idea was great. Obviously. He had organised a beautiful birthday  party in the garden of his childhood house, and had rented a giant bouncy castle.

Casper was so busy having fun with his brothers and sisters that he never complained about the fact that none of his classmates had showed up.

They had also been lucky; it was in fact a rare sunny day for being January, and it didn’t rain.

“Great idea, love,” John said in Sherlock’s ear, kissing his cheek. Sherlock preened like a cat under the praise, and grinned at nothing.

“Meretricious.”

John elbowed him and then took his hand.

“Let’s see how the others are doing.”

They walked hand in hand through the garden, and found Jane sitting on the grass. They stopped her in time to keep her from eating a  second ant. Sherlock picked her up, laughing and tickling her tummy.

“Don’t laugh, she’ll think it’s funny!” John frowned at Jane.

“It _is_ funny, John!” Sherlock said through fits of giggles. “She ate an _ant_!”

“We’re keeping her close,” John replied seriously, nodding in Jane’s direction.

Right then, Gabe approached them with a stethoscope.

“Nana Vivi gived me this!” He exclaimed.

“Gave,” Sherlock softly corrected him.

“You’re sssick!” Gabe told Sherlock, with his adorable lisp.

“Oh, am I now?” Sherlock asked him, smiling down at the toddler.

Gabe put the stethoscope on Sherlock’s leg, then gasped dramatically.

“You have a cough ache!”

Sherlock and John both burst out laughing.

“A cough ache?” Asked John, amused.

Gabe nodded seriously, wrapping the stethoscope around his neck. Then he turned to Sherlock.

“You need resth.”

Sherlock laughed again, and tried not to think about the 15th of January, now scarily close.

 

* * *

 

“Has Sherlock talked to you about our offer?”

John blinked at Violet in confusion.

“No? I don’t think he has.”

Violet’s smile fell a bit, but she recovered quickly.

“Well, ask him about it, I think he would be mad at me if I told you.”

Then she took a sip of her champagne, and entered the house.

Frowning, John stuffed his hands in his pockets and went looking for Sherlock.

He found him crouching beside the bouncy castle.  He, Rosie, and Gabe were playing with the mud.

“And you see, this mud is different from the mud  beside the house, so if you observe one’s shoes you can deduce their path around the garden,” Sherlock was saying, while Gabe played with a stick and Rosie listened intently.

“Your lovely mum told me you have something to tell me.”

Sherlock froze.

“Kids, you keep studying the mud, I need to talk to your brother.”

Then he got up, took John by the arm and walked away.

John followed with a frown. What was so secretive?

Sherlock sat on a bench, inviting John to do the same. John sat beside him and waited as Sherlock gathered his thoughts.

“My parents, they… they want us all to come live here, and they want to, yes, to pay for your studies and-”

“No,” John said, the mere idea so repulsive and humiliating he felt sick.

“I knew you’d say that.”

“Sherlock, I won’t let your parents… _parent_ me or some shit. We’re managing, drop it.”

“But John-”

“Drop. It.”

Sherlock sighed, and luckily shut up.

 

* * *

 

The day after Casper’s party, Sherlock went to John with a huge grin a glint in his eyes.

“John,” he said, barely restraining his enthusiasm. John, who was making dinner, turned, and found himself enveloped by Sherlock’s strong arms.

“I got a job, John! Like, a real job, as a bartender!”

John squeezed his boyfriend tight. “I’m proud of you, love,” he murmured against the skin of his neck.

“Which bar is it, then?”

Sherlock leaned with his forehead against John’s.

“The Rooster.”

John’s eyes almost fell off his face. What the fuck? That was the gay bar where Janine and Irene had bought free entrance for him and Sherlock, for his birthday.

All John wanted to say was, “You can’t work there, I’m gonna kill whoever gets near you with a ten foot pole.”

But Sherlock looked so happy, John couldn’t let his jealousy ruin the moment.

Sherlock spotted it anyway.

“Oh my god, are you _jealous_?”

John snorted. “You know what guys look for in a gay bar, and you know that bartenders are thought to have to provide it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re not making any sense.”

“You’re right, I’m proud of you, now leave it.”

Sherlock laughed, and John almost strangled him.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock’s first day at The Rooster was his birthday. Not that he cared, he hadn’t even told John.

Sherlock had never cared much for his birthday, anyway.

He had managed to get a job in this particular bar because Mycroft was friends with the owner, who had said nothing about Sherlock having to take a break from the 15th.

“Hey gorgeous, will you give me a blowjob?” A client asked, grinning flirtatiously at Sherlock.

Sherlock internally grimaced, but forced himself to smile and prepared the damn drink, cursing whoever decided to name it ‘blowjob’.

“A blowjob for me too,” a well-known voice growled, and Sherlock turns with a huge grin, finding a thunderous John glaring at the previous client.

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed gleefully, his eyes shining.

John sighed, turning his attention away from the scared-looking customer and facing Sherlock.

“ ‘llo love,” he said, taking a sip of his blowjob.

He grimaced. “God, this is awful.”

Sherlock laughed. “Why did you order it then?”

John smirked, leaning forward. “I meant a literal blowjob,” he whispered in Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock gulped down, feeling his throat dry.

“I’m off in twenty minutes,” He said, his voice gruff.

John winked at him. “I’ll be waiting here.”

Sherlock frowned. “Wait, who’s with the kids?”

“Someone – your mum – told me it’s your birthday, so I left them with Janine and Irene and came here to celebrate my gorgeous boyfriend.”

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him. A few cheered, others wolf-whistled, but Sherlock didn’t care.

He kissed John with teeth and tongue, with the passion usually reserved for the bedroom.

When he was satisfied, he leaned back, and saw John’s hungry expression, his mussed hair.

“When are you off?” he growled.

“Fifteen minutes,” Sherlock breathed.

Those minutes had better fly, Sherlock thought, and adjusted his pants.

 

* * *

 

Fifteen minutes finally passed, and Sherlock went to the locker room. He took off his uniform (a golden, shiny tank top and black, tight shorts) in a hurry, and didn’t even bother taking off his make-up, so he could get to John as soon as he could.

He found him beside the dancefloor, so Sherlock ran to him and grabbed his hand.

“Let’s dance,” he shouted in the shorter man’s ear, to be heard over the loud music.

John laughed and followed Sherlock on the dancefloor.

A Nicki Minaj song was playing, and Sherlock started singing all the words, making John laugh and laugh.

“I didn’t know you liked Nicki Minaj,” John said, to which Sherlock replied, “I love the queen!”

John giggled, and grabbed Sherlock’s hips, swaying them in time with the music. John danced really, really well.

Sherlock was reminded of that first night he had seen him, so beautiful under the ever-changing lights, before a kid stole his wallet and changed both their futures.

“God, I love you,” John yelled, before realising what he’s said. Both he and Sherlock froze, the music ringing in their ears.

John had never said it.

Never.

Sherlock grabbed John’s wrists and pinned him to the nearest wall, kissing him fervently.

Hearing John say those words, after all that time, after all they had been through, broke Sherlock’s heart. Because he wasn’t worthy of John’s love. Not when he was leaving on the 15th, and John still didn’t know.

“Sher-” John panted, but his words were swallowed by Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock insinuated one knee in between John’s legs, rubbing it on John’s hardness. John moaned in his mouth, a surprised little sound. Sherlock had never taken control in their relationship.

Tonight, he was in control.

And Sherlock felt the exact moment John let his defences down and melted in Sherlock.

John started thrusting his hips, rubbing his hard cock against Sherlock’s knee, his mouth wide open as Sherlock licked his way inside it.

His hands were still pinned to the wall by Sherlock, and he didn’t do anything to free himself. Sherlock could tell John was enjoying himself, but he didn’t want the shorter man to come in that bar.

“Let’s go home,” he ordered, and was surprised when John’s pupils dilated and he nodded enthusiastically.

They ran hand in hand all the way home, giggling, feeling elated, light, _alive_.

When they got home, everyone was already in their bedroom, Irene and Janine fast asleep on the couch. Trying to quiet their giggles, Sherlock and John climbed up the stairs, and shut themselves into John’s bedroom.

“Sherlock, wait,” John murmured, as Sherlock started to crawl on the bed.

Sherlock arched one eyebrow.

“I… I’ve never done this with anyone and I… want, yes, I want you to fuck me.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, his mouth slightly agape. They had never done that either.

“Are, are you sure?” Sherlock asked, breathing heavily.

John took a deep breath. “Yes,” he eventually said, smiling slightly.

Then he sat down beside Sherlock and took his hands in his.

“Sherlock I, I trust you. And that’s more important to me than I love you.”

Sherlock couldn’t resist anymore, and leaned forward to kiss John full on the lips. As the kiss grew more heated, they divested each other, until they were naked and dry humping on the sheets.

“Please, Sherlock,” John pleaded, making Sherlock gasp and duck to suck on John’s collarbone.

“Are you one hundred percent sure? I’ve never topped either,” Sherlock whispered against John’s skin.

“You’re the only one, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shivered violently, and tried to swallow his guilt. Because he wasn’t worthy of John Watson’s trust, just like he wasn’t of his love and apparent devotion.

“John, I don’t think- there’s something you should know,” he tried to say, but John interrupted him with a bruising kiss.

“Later,” John gasped, wrapping his hand around both their erections, making Sherlock hiss in pleasure, “I need you to fuck me now.”

Sherlock cradled John’s head in his big hands.

“John,” he murmured, reverently, before latching his lips onto the other man’s lips.

Sherlock decided he was gonna do it. He read in John’s misty eyes the need of closeness, the need, after showing his vulnerable side, to not be refused, the need to be cherished and adored.

Sherlock could do that, definitely.

“Lie down,” he said in a low voice, making John tremble all over.

John lay on his back, the dim light seeping through the window illuminating his body in the most delicious way.

Sherlock licked his lips, and coated his fingers in lube.

He inserted the first digit and heard John’s hole spasm around him.

“It takes a little to adjust, but after that it’s nice, I assure you,” Sherlock reassured John, whose face was a grimace.

John nodded, gritting his teeth.

Sherlock played with the first finger until John’s tight ring of muscles was relaxed, then inserted a second finger.

This time John yelped, and Sherlock immediately went and looked for John’s prostate.

When he found it, John growled, “Oh my god, oh my _god_.”

Sherlock kept fucking John with two fingers, brushing against the sweet spot inside of him every once in a while, so that John could relax. John’s cock twitched and jerked, and Sherlock _ached_ to wrap his mouth around it, so he did.

Giving oral pleasure to John proved to be a very good idea, because as Sherlock bobbed his head up and down John’s length, swirling his tongue around his girth, John’s body went lax and pliant.

Sherlock added a third finger then, and when that went in without bother, he knew John was ready.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” Sherlock whispered in John’s ear as he smeared lube on his cock, still massaging John’s prostate with his other fingers.

They rarely ever used condoms anymore, they had both tested and decided long ago to be exclusive.

“Sherlock,” John panted, blissed out.

Sherlock kissed John’s cheek, then started sliding into him, ever so slowly.

John grimaced and gritted his teeth, the pads of his fingers leaving bruises on Sherlock’s biceps.

When he was all the way inside, Sherlock took a deep breath.

John was _tight_. Tight and warm and beautiful.

“Move,” John said, and Sherlock did.

 

* * *

 

“What was that thing you needed to tell me?”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, leaving kudos and especially commenting! I love reading your comments <3


	13. Expectations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm posting this from my phone, so i have no idea what will come out of this lmao
> 
> But I'm in Rome with friends and I dont have a computer, I'm typing as we walk haha
> 
> I will edit when I'm home, i just wanted you to have the chapter asap!
> 
> As always, thank you thank you thank you to [mafm](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mafm/pseuds/mafm), who beta'd this chapter. You're great!
> 
>  
> 
> **TW FOR EXPLICIT DRUGS USE**

Sherlock scratched his forearm, feeling itchy, his skin too tight for his body.

He needed a fix. He needed a fix _now._

He hadn’t got high in about four days, Marcus vanished in thin air. And he needed cocaine.

He needed cocaine so badly it was driving him insane, that his leg couldn’t stop shaking, that his head was pounding, his tongue parched, his eyes burning.

John ogled him warily, and Sherlock knew he had spotted the signs, but didn’t believe what he was seeing.

It was the 13th of January. A week after Sherlock’s birthday, and two days to the clinic. Sherlock needed just one last high, one last fucking hurrah before saying goodbye to the thing that had kept him from going mad before he met John.

But Marcus was nowhere to be found, and Sherlock was going insane.

 

* * *

 

John didn’t know what to do.

He had talked to Siger Holmes about taking custody of his siblings, and everything was going smoothly. He had a lawyer willing to work pro bono on his case, and who had told him he had good chances of getting his siblings’ custody.

Problem was, he still hadn’t told Sherlock. And he didn’t like keeping things from him.

John valued honesty about all things, what his trust issues and all that crap.

But he couldn’t talk to Sherlock about this, not now. Sherlock would insist and want to get involved, maybe get custody of the kids as well. And John couldn’t ask that of him, he just couldn’t.

But keeping things from Sherlock was both very hard and very painful. John lived in fear of the day Sherlock would work out the reason behind John’s wary looks.

But Sherlock wasn’t himself these days. His deductions were slow and inaccurate, he drank like a bloody fish and he kept fidgeting on his spot.

He almost looked like Joe when… nah. It wasn’t possible.

 

* * *

 

“Lice!” John exclaimed, closing the call.

“Hmm?” Sherlock asked from the couch, scratching at his arm.

“Both at Gabe’s school, and at Rosie and Casper’s.”

Sherlock grimaced. “Disgusting.”

“Yeah. Now, you check the kids’ hair, I will go find some damn lice treatment.”

This said, he disappeared. Sherlock sighed, and called the kids’ names.

The three of them came trudging down the stairs, and Sherlock set to check their hair. Luckily, none of them seemed to have any signs of the disgusting insects, and Sherlock was incredibly relieved. He would have died if his curly hair got infested.

“Okay, you three stay here, John went out to buy some lice treatment so you won’t catch any at school,” he explained, mouth dry and skin prickling.

“Sherlock, you okay?” Rosie asked, caressing his cheek with her tiny hand. Sherlock shut his eyes and nodded.

“Sherlock, you don’t look too well,” Casper insisted, staring at him with his big, clever brown eyes.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Sherlock snapped, making the three children flinch.

“Sorry,” he murmured, “Sorry,” he repeated, and flew out of the front door.

He wanted to scream, tear at his clothes and get high.

He needed a fix like a man in the desert needs water. Right now, he needed cocaine more than he needed John, the kids, his family.

It scared him.

He ran to his car and drove like a fury, parking in Montague Street. His feet brought him to his hole of a flat, and to the cheap, probably dangerous cocaine he had hidden behind the toilet tank.

He had promised to never use it, it was there just to make him feel safe. But Marcus and his high quality cocaine were nowhere to be found, and Sherlock would be glad to just snort this crap, if it kept him sane.

He started cutting the white powder with a knife, before snorting it all up.

God, it burnt.

God, it felt like breathing.

 

* * *

 

When John came back home, chaos reigned.

Jane and Gabe were crying on the floor, as Casper tried to soothe them. Rosie was bravely holding back her tears, holding her arm to her chest. It looked broken. Harriet was perched on the kitchen counter, a drunken, dazed look on her face, and with a bloody lip that Susan was tending to. Joe was taking pictures of Rosie.

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

“What the hell is going on?” John roared, and like a spell, everything quieted down.

Susan sighed in relief, both Jane and Gabe ran to him.

John knelt and held them and kissed them until they were calm, and Gabe was babbling something about Jane stealing his stuffed bee toy.

“Where’s Sherlock?” John asked Susan, who shrugged and went back to look after Harry.

“And what in the bloody hell has happened to you?”

Harry smiled at him. “Got into a fight at the pub.”

“It’s bloody six in the afternoon, Harriet!”

Harry just grinned drunkenly at him, and kept on minding her business.

Letting out a slow, deep breath, John pinched the bridge of his nose.

“And what are you doing, Joe?”

“Daddy broke my arm and gave me a twenty and said he’d buy me things for my experiments and I said yes because he-”

“You broke her arm?!” John screamed, thunderous, turning to Joe.

Joe hid his camera behind his back. “I’m broke, son! My lawyer said this would help, that the insurance would pay.”

John went for it; he grabbed Joe by his collar and pushed him away, before landing a well assessed fist on his jaw.

“I’m gonna kill you next time you touch one of my kids,” he hissed.

Joe sneered, “They ain’t yours, they’re _mine_.”

John smiled dangerously down at the man he no longer considered his father.

“They’re gonna be very, very soon.”

“What does that mean?”

“That I’m taking your parental rights away and getting custody of all of them,” John growled, the shoved his father away with his foot.

“What?” Sherlock’s voice asked from behind him.

John set his jaw, and turned to give Sherlock an earful. “Where the hell were yo-”

He stopped.

It wasn’t possible. He couldn’t believe the signs.  

White powder on the collar of his purple shirt.

Bloodshot eyes.

Reddened nostrils.

Fidgeting.

 _Cocaine_.

John shook his head.

“I… I needed a thing,” Sherlock babbled, so unlike himself it was almost unbelievable.

Without uttering a word, John flew upstairs, and threw the lice treatment on the bed.

He started crying.

“No, no, no…” He whispered into his hands, trying to find an explanation, any explanation, other than the obvious, for Sherlock’s appearance.

He couldn’t breathe. John tried hard not to hyperventilate as he thought back of all the signals before this one.

Of all the times Sherlock had gone home, claiming to need something and coming back without it. Of all the times John had seen him antsy and fidgety and had always blamed it on his being too clever and getting bored easily.

Now John put two and two together, and god did it hurt.

It was like a blow to the stomach, and it left him breathless, gasping for air. He had trusted Sherlock, with his life, with his _siblings_ , who were everything to John. And Sherlock had left to go get a fix and left them with Joe.

He hadn’t cared.

Like a junkie.

The thought hit John hard. A junkie, like his father and his mother. John could really choose his partners well.

God, what an _idiot_ he had been!

Sherlock walked in through the door.

John got up and started gathering the man’s stuff and stuffing it into a duffel bag.

“Wh-at are y-you doing?” Sherlock asked, voice shaking with every word he spoke.

“I’m packing your stuff,” John replied through gritted teeth, “Because you’re leaving.”

“John, please,” Sherlock begged, getting closer to him.

“Fuck you.”

“John, let me explain-”

“Explain what!” John exploded, rounding on Sherlock.

“You want to explain the traces of fucking _cocaine_ on your shirt? I am no idiot, Sherlock.  Did you forget that Joe Watson is my father?  I recognize what is happening here, you utter, lying prick.”

“I’m an addict, John, and I was going to tell yo-”

“Shut up, shutupshutup…”

John cradled his head in his hands, trying hard to even his breath.

This couldn’t be happening. It was too much.

“Honesty, Sherlock. That’s the only thing I’d asked you.”

“I’ve been honest just about everything, I was just waiting for the right moment-”

John huffed a dry laugh, and kept on stuffing Sherlock’s crap in the bag.

“The right moment? Yeah, sure. When was that gonna be? Were you waiting to OD on my carpet?”

Sherlock looked speechless, his eyes unfocused.

“Look, I’m in a bad trip at the moment, can we talk about this later?”

John stared at him wide-eyed.

“Later? There’s no later, Sherlock sodding Holmes. You and I are done. You can go rot in an alley with your precious cocaine.”

“It’s not that bad-”

“YOU LEFT THE KIDS ALONE WITH JOE!”

Sherlock staggered back, the force of John’s voice was so powerful.

“I… You don’t understand, a couple of days and I would have gone to the clinic, everything is booked, I just needed one last… One last…”

Sherlock’s vision was clearly blurred, for his eyes seemed to be unfocused on anything.

“I can’t even hold a conversation with you,” John sneered, zipping the duffel bag closed.

Then he walked up to his boyfriend and stared in his blown pupils.

“You’re just a junkie,” he spat, “No excuses, Sherlock. You’re no different from Margaret, or Joe.”

“John, listen, I _am_ different, I love you.”

“I love you too, but it’s not enough.”

John grabbed the bag and threw it at Sherlock. He was suddenly very, very tired. Not angry, just exhausted, as if he’d run a marathon.

He sighed. “I don’t need you in my life. I don’t need more junkies.  Junkies use you up.”

Sherlock stared at him, mouth agape, unable to say anything. For once.

“Just… Get out. Get clean for your lovely family, and I have never been more glad that I didn’t involve you in my siblings’ custody business.”

“John…”

“We were going to end anyway. Just like you got bored of your family, you would have got bored of us.”

“No,” Sherlock said, panicked, “Never you. Not you or the kids, never.”

John shook his head. He just wanted to sleep.

“Get out, Sherlock. And don’t come back.”

“John…”

“GET OUT!” John finally roared, and Sherlock, tears in his eyes, nodded and disappeared.

John felt lost. Like he had just lost a limb, and he wasn’t going to be whole ever again.

He threw himself on the bed, covering his face with an arm.

“Where did Sherlock go?” Rosie’s voice asked.

John lifted his head and found all the kids on his door, all six of them.

“He’s gone,” he replied.

He read the grief on his siblings’ faces and couldn’t watch it. Couldn’t watch it.

“Rosie, let’s go to the A&E,” he sighed, and got up. He didn’t have the time to grieve.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock ran until he found a dark alley where he could hide. He crawled and sat down on the filthy ground, not caring that his precious coat was getting dirty, that it was wet and starting to rain.

He had lost John. Forever this time.

There wasn’t a glimpse of hope, no redeeming plan, nothing.

He didn’t care about anything if he didn’t have John. He would be happy to stay there, all alone in the alley, like he deserved to be.

He had caused Joe to break Rosie’s arm. He had left the kids. With Joe.

He deserved to OD in that alley.

Slowly, he took his drugs out, the low-quality ones he kept for emergencies.

Those would surely get him to his purpose.

He poured the powder on the back of his hand, where the crack between index finger and thumb was, and snorted. Once, twice.

God, he needed that.

Suddenly everything became crystal clear.

John, dressed as a doctor, a bloody heart in his hands. It was Sherlock’s heart.

“Wow, a heart! Didn’t think he had one,” John was saying, then disappeared.

Rosie, beside a real volcano, laughing as lava washed over her.

Casper, his eyes growing huger and huger, until they were so big they fell off his face.

“Oh Sherlock, what have you done?” Mycroft.

Susan, yelling, “Done!” As she reattached a leg to a Harry who was broken in a million pieces.

Gabe and Jane, contending the bee toy until it broke, blood and cocaine erupting from it.

“Mummy! Father! Quick, he’s hallucinating!”

Sherlock was hallucinating.

He kept seeing the Watsons doing the most absurd things, and hearing his brother’s voice yelling orders.

He just hoped they let him die in peace.

 

* * *

 

 

At eleven in the evening, everyone was asleep.

John sat on a chair in his room, unable to even think about sleeping in the bed he had shared with Sherlock until the night before.

He missed him too much already.

But it would pass. It had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ending, when Sherlock hallucinates, is loosely based off KeelyThompson1's AWESOME fic "The Faithful Compass". 
> 
> Sorry about the ending of the chapter!


	14. Predictability

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Not dead!! 
> 
> I'm sorry this took long, but I started taking commissions, and I was busy writing them, since they were paid for and all. 
> 
> This chapter is a bit short as well, but that's because we are nearing the end. 
> 
> And I have a surprise for when we reach it!
> 
> Thank you to mafm as always, who beta'd this chapter! 
> 
> Enjoy! xx

Casper stared at the lump that was once Sherlock Holmes. 

He was dressed in white, and never had he ever been thinner. There were huge, dark circles under his eyes, and his smile was tired and fake. His eyes didn’t shine with their usual brightness. 

“Sherlock…” Rosie murmured, then ran to his outstretched arms. He couldn’t even lift her, so weak he was, Casper observed. 

“Rosie, Rosie, Rosie…” He whispered back, his face hidden in the girl’s curls. 

Then Sherlock lifted his gaze. He scanned the faces of all the Watsons, all there. Except one. 

“Where’s John?” He asked, holding Rosie tight to him. 

Harry sighed. “He… He was busy.”

“You mean he refused to come visit his junkie of an ex,” Sherlock spat out, and Susan flinched. 

“We mith you,” Gabe said, before starting to sob. “Why you keep here? I want you home! Want you home!” 

“I need to stay here to be better, Gabe,” Sherlock explained patiently, “But soon I will be out and we can play experiments together again, alright?”

“ ‘speriment! ‘speriment!” Gabe yelled happily, before sagging into Sherlock’s arms, right beside Rosie. 

“Casper,” Sherlock pleaded, his eyes misty. Casper didn’t resist anymore and started crying, falling to his knees to wind his little arms around Sherlock’s neck. 

“I miss you so much,” he sobbed. 

“It’s all fine, it’s gonna be over soon,” Sherlock reassured him, gritting his teeth. 

“And how are you? Are you alright? Do you need anything?” Sherlock asked urgently looking at Harry and Susan, who was holding Jane on her hip. 

Harry shook her head, a surprised smile on her face. “You’re the one in rehab and you ask  _ us _ if we need anything? The question is, do  _ you _ need anything?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, and Casper smoothed his hair back, kissing his cheek. 

“You here is more than enough,” he gritted out. 

Silent tears started streaming down Susan’s face. 

“May I… May I hold Jane?” Sherlock looked so vulnerable, so open, that Casper was almost afraid. He wasn’t used to seeing Sherlock like that. 

Sherlock was strong, and clever, like a superhero, with his billowing coat, and his fast deductions. 

He wasn’t supposed to be weak, and scared, and alone. It was wrong.

Rosie and Casper backed away, and Sherlock got up, Gabe still attached to his leg. He wouldn’t let go. 

Jane went willingly into Sherlock’s outstretched arms, a happy giggle escaping her mouth. 

“Lock!” She exclaimed, and Sherlock looked flabbergasted. 

“When did she learn…?” 

Susan smiled softly at him. “She said it for the first time looking  at a picture of you a couple of days ago,” she explained.

Sherlock looked moved to tears, and Casper wanted to scream. Sherlock didn’t cry. 

Sherlock did not. Cry. It wasn’t possible. 

He put down Jane and sat on the floor, then started talking quietly to her. Gabe joined them, as well as Rosie, while Susan, Harry, and Casper stared sadly as Sherlock’s cheeks became more and more wet and shiny. 

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m just saying you’re being too hard on him,” Harry tried again.  But John, he  literally  _ roared _ , shouting  in exasperation. 

“Shut up, Harry! You don’t know the half of it, and it’s my life.  Shut! Up!” 

In frustration, John took his iPhone (a hand-me-down from Sherlock) and threw it against the wall. Harry looked scared and hurt and sad. 

“You need to chill,” Susan said from the door. 

“WILL YOU LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE?!” John cried, voice hoarse for how much he was yelling. He could feel his eyes prickle with tears. 

Susan and Harry flinched, from the rawness and pain in John’s voice. Quietly, they left him, as requested. 

John was alone in his room once again, with his files to legalise the adoption of his siblings. 

He stared at them, heart clenched painfully in his ribcage. He wanted some time to cry, a bit of space to breathe, to  _ think _ . But he couldn’t. 

His siblings’ well being came before his. 

Did he miss Sherlock? Yes. Like a fucking limb. 

Did he have time to dwell on him? Consider forgiveness? No. He had too much to do. 

Like calling Harold Johnson, who was working on his case pro bono, and get settled for the first hearing. 

John didn’t have time to cry over his junkie of an ex-boyfriend, didn’t have time to go and see him in rehab, nor to wonder  “could I forgive him?”

“Harold Johnson? This is John Watson, you’re working pro bono on my custody case.”

“Ah yes, hello Mr. Watson, is every document I asked you for ready for my review?”

John scanned the papers scattered on his bed. Rosie had forged Margaret’s signature to have her resign her parental rights, and every documented act of Joe injuring the kids, social services reports, and such were there. 

“Yes, I have everything. Except my father refuses to resign his parental rights,” John gritted his teeth.

Johnson sighed loudly over the phone. “Then I’m sorry but we will have to go to trial. You against your father for your siblings’ custody. It won’t be easy.”

“I know,” John said, biting down on his lower lip. Then he squared his shoulders. 

“But I’m ready to fight for my kids.”

 

* * *

 

“Hello darling,” Violet said, smiling warmly at her youngest son. 

Sherlock only groaned in response and kept looking out of the window stubbornly. 

“How are you today, son?” Siger asked carefully, sitting down on one of the visitor’s chairs. Sherlock huffed, and still didn’t answer. 

He wasn’t going to cry in front of his sodding parents and sodding brother, who stared at the scene from afar, a distasteful look in his grey eyes. 

“You miss them, don’t you,” Violet murmured softly taking his hands in hers. 

Those words, spoken with such tenderness and care, touched Sherlock right where it hurt.

“God, yes,” he sobbed silently, and hid his face in his mother’s chest. 

“Shh, little bee, it’s alright,” Violet whispered, rocking him from left to right. “You’re gonna get out of here in no time and you will win your John back, and all those kids will come live with us, and it will all be fine.”

Sherlock shook his head, grinding his teeth together, fisting his mother’s blouse. 

Not one part  of what she was saying was gonna happen. Not one part.

That knowledge was tearing Sherlock apart.

 

* * *

 

“How did Joe manage to get a lawyer anyway?” Susan grumbled, waiting outside the courtroom for their trial to begin. 

Harold Johnson heaved a long sigh. 

“Mrs. Albertson is a shite lawyer and an ex-lover of Joe’s, so we needn’t worry,” John gritted out. 

Johnson nodded, and he looked like he was gonna say something, when the doors to the courtroom opened. 

“Ready, John?” Harold asked, and John blew out a deep breath. 

God, how he longed for Sherlock’s presence- 

No.

Absolutely not. 

Not here, not now. 

Together, the Watsons entered the wood-panelled room, and John took his place behind a desk with Johnson, while the kids sat in the back. 

Joe arrived only a few seconds later, together with Albertson, and the two stood behind their desk. 

He was actually well dressed, with an old suit that was a bit too large on him, and a pair of well-polished shoes. 

John despised him. 

Then the judge started talking, and John squared his shoulders. 

_ Into battle _ . 

One hour later, it was John’s turn to talk. He would have been questioned both by his lawyer and Joe’s, and he was feeling incredibly nervous. 

He sat on behind the witness bar, and waited for Johnson to ask him questions.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock stared out of his window, thinking of John. 

Today it was the day of the trial, and oh, how he wished he could be there. 

He knew that, had he been there, the result of the trial wouldn’t have changed, but he still longed to be there. He did, he desperately did…

But he had gone and lied to John, and now here he was. 

God, he deserved this. 

Deserved the maddening, excruciating pain at the thought of not being able to be with John when the man needed him. 

He deserved it. 

And all he could do now, was sit on his bed, and wait.

 

* * *

 

“Joe is a damn bastard and you too for defending him!” John yelled at Albertson, when it was her turn to question him. 

“Mr. Watson! Behave or you will be thrown out of this courtroom,” the judge scolded. 

John took a steadying breath, and tried to remember Johnson’s words. 

“ _ They will try to discredit you by winding you up, stay calm. _ ”

“Joe Watson has never harmed you in any way, never physically assaulted you, so why would you want to take the parental rights away from a father?”

“Joe used to hit Harry a lot when she was younger, because she reminded him of Mum. Joe broke Rosie’s arm-”

“I have been informed that the child broke her arm of her own volition, to help her father. If this doesn’t prove how much his kids love him, I don’t know what does, your honour.”

“Listen here,” John growled, frustrated to no end, “Joe has left the kids in my custody more than once, as he went around getting high and drunk. He once left cocaine on the coffee table, and Casper almost inhaled it.”

“Almost is the key word here,” Albertson said, and John wanted to  _ throttle  _ her. 

“What about when he punched Susan because she was trying to save our couch? Or that time he left us for three days, when I was six, and Harry had a fever at forty?”

“Your father’s alcoholic tendencies can be read as a real mental illness. Is it right to blame him for something he can’t control?”

John wanted to scream. 

“How can you even- It’s the life of six kids you’re talking about! He should be responsible for them, should be their role model, and yet he is their biggest enemy. How is this fair?” 

“You are the one who is not being fair, Mr. Watson. And with what means will you support your family? You are just a boy. You’re gonna starve these kids. How is  _ that  _ fair? And with this I’m done, your honour.”

 

* * *

 

“Verdict,” the judge called. 

John’s stomach was clenching and turning, his palms sweating, his head light. 

This was it. 

He didn’t even hear the verdict. 

He just heard, “John Watson is now legal guardian of all six of his siblings until they become of age.”

He didn’t know if he was more relieved or scared. 

Now the kids were his until he was forty. 

He was a parent of six children. At twenty. 

And he was alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think of the chapter and the nearing ending in the comments below! <3


	15. Monsters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is (almost) the end, because next chapter is gonna be the epilogue!!
> 
> Thanks to mafm for beta'ing! :) <3

The first person who came to visit him, aside from the Watsons and his family, was Molly. 

Sherlock had no idea how she came to know where he was, but he suspected Mycroft. 

“Hi Will- Sherlock,” she said, eyes incredibly sad. 

“Hi Molly,” Sherlock replied politely, but coldly. He didn’t want anyone’s pity. 

“I brought you some homemade muffins, I know the ones they give you in hospital and stuff are shit,” she murmured softly, handing him a delicious-smelling basket. 

Surprised, Sherlock accepted it with a stunned, “Thanks.”

Then Molly sat in front of him and started telling all about her new boyfriend, Tom, and for a while, Sherlock forgot where he was.

 

* * *

 

John was working himself to the bone these days. The club was hosting party after party, and being one of the managers, he seemed to always be away from home. 

“We never see you anymore,” Rosie told him one night, at three am, when he went to check in her room. 

He sighed and kissed the top of her head. 

“We never see you nor Sherlock. I miss you both,” she continued. 

John didn’t say a word and left.

 

* * *

 

The next person who came to visit Sherlock was Marcus. 

“Hello Mr. Scottie,” he said sheepishly. 

Sherlock took a deep breath. “I’m not William Scott anymore, Marcus.”

Marcus looked affronted as he said, “You’ll always be Mr. Scottie in my heart.”

Sherlock smiled at him and shook his head. Then he waved towards a chair. “Sit down. How’s the business in the streets?”

“Oh, all is well, new dumb kids have joined the party. But, Mr. Scottie,” Marcus said, suddenly serious, “I’m  _ so  _ glad you’re getting clean.”

Touched, Sherlock could only reply a croaked out, “Thank you.”

“And your… John?” 

Sherlock took a deep, hurt breath. 

“We… We broke up,” he said, with a bitter smile. 

Marcus knew when not to press on. So he started telling Sherlock about his new assistant, and Sherlock responded by telling him how dumb he was.

 

* * *

 

Two months later

 

* * *

 

John hadn’t slept in two days. That was why, when he opened the door and found Sherlock Holmes on his doorstep, two coffees in his hands, he thought he was dreaming. 

“Hi John,” Sherlock said softly, and John had to look at Jane in his arms to be sure he really  _ wasn’t  _ in a dream. 

Wordlessly, John started to close the door, but Sherlock prevented it with his foot. 

“John,” he whispered. 

“Fuck off,” was all John replied. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t be childish.” 

John’s mouth fell open. “ _ Childish _ ? How fucking  _ dare  _ you.”

Sherlock blushed slightly, and John relished in that small victory. He was so fucking angry, though. 

“Do you think coffee is gonna fix this fucking mess?” John snarled. 

Sherlock bit on his lower lip, and took a deep breath. 

“Give me a chance.”

“I already gave you one.  More than one, actually.”

“I…” Sherlock put the coffee on the ground and took one step forward. John took one back. 

“Don’t you fucking touch me.”

Sherlock looked crestfallen, but  he said, “You’re still mad at me, which means you still love me.”

John didn’t deny that. “What’s your point?” 

“I want… I mean, if you want to break up with me you shouldn’t care anymore, so let’s keep seeing each other until either you are not mad at me anymore and we can be friends or…”

“Or? You really think you have even the smallest chance to get back with me?” 

Sherlock took another step forward, and John, trying to stay calm, put Jane down, then grabbed Sherlock by his wrists and tackled him to the floor of the living room. 

“I said,” John growled, “don’t fucking touch me.”

Sherlock opened his hands, pinned over his head, a scared expression on his face. 

“Lock! John!” Jane yelled, and started crying. 

John let Sherlock hands go, and reached to his side to caress Jane’s hair, to calm her down. 

“John, we…”

“There’s no ‘we’, Sherlock. There’s a you, putting yourself in a situation where you can only win. Either as a friend or as a boyfriend.”

“I moved to the house in front of yours.”

John’s jaw fell. 

“I will come here every day until you forgive me.” 

John cradled Jane in his arms and got up. 

“What you did is inexcusable. But go on, try and come here every day.”

“John please,” Sherlock pleaded, still on the floor, hands still open and above his head. John was hit by a wave of affection for him, but he shook it away. 

“You can get up now,” he murmured softly. “Listen, Sherlock, I need to get ready for work now, leave me alone.”

“I can watch Jane while you get ready, like we used to-”

“No.”

“I’ve got a job now, in a coffee shop. I don’t nick cars anymore.”

“Good for you.”

Sherlock nodded and got up. 

“See you tomorrow,” he said, and before John could say something back, he was gone. 

When John exited for work, there was a cup full of coffee on the doorstep.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Sherlock was outside John’s house when he came back from his run.

John groaned, yelled at him, threw the coffee away, and entered the house.

 

* * *

 

Perhaps he had been a bit harsh, the day before, John thought, and this time accepted the coffee Sherlock offered him. 

Once he did, Sherlock beamed at him, and disappeared into the house in front of John’s.

 

* * *

 

The day after, when John came back from his run, Sherlock was inside the house, cooking pancakes as the kids laughed and talked to him. 

There was a cup of coffee at John’s seat on the table. 

The little ones were enthralled, staring at Sherlock as he flipped the pancakes in the air, while Harry and Sue updated him on everything he had missed. 

John grabbed Sherlock by his wrist, and everyone stopped talking at once. 

“Out. Just me and you. Now.”

No one dared speak as John strode out of the house, Sherlock following in his stride. 

“Go away,” John growled, “And don’t you ever,  _ ever  _ dare, ever  _ again _ , show up here while I’m not in, clear?”

Sherlock nodded, a bit scared, and John didn’t lose sight of him until he entered his own house.

 

* * *

 

“He’s driving me mad!” John complained, burying his face in his arms. Irene and Janine sighed in sync. 

“What’s with that sigh?” John asked warily. He knew the two of them were always one or two steps ahead of him. 

“Perhaps you’re still in love with him?” Irene suggested, and when both John and Janine glared at her, she added, “Just saying.”

“What Irene is trying to say, is that there’s a reason why you still care so much and are still so mad at him.”

John snorted, “You two talk like him. Coming here was a mistake.”

That said, he got up and left.

 

* * *

 

“What do you think?” 

Janine sighed. “That those two are more in love than it is healthy, and that Sherlock won’t give up on John.”

“It’s all up to John,” Irene agreed, “He has to trust Sherlock one last time or forget about him.” 

Janine nodded sadly. “What do you hope for?” 

“I think Sherlock has truly changed, and could be good for John now that he is clean.”

“I think so too. Hopefully John will understand that, too.”

 

* * *

 

“John, Sherlock has changed, really. He’s much more present when he talks, and I don’t think he’ll relapse if you forgive him, he’ll just have too much to lose. The guy loves you, John.”

John shot daggers at Susan. 

“Thank you for the tirade, Sue,” John groaned, too busy doing the laundry to listen. 

“Seriously John, give him a chance,” Harriet continued, as she helped him stuff clothes in the washing machine. 

“I already did once, didn’t work out,” John said distractedly, closing the machine and starting it. 

“John, I miss Sherlock,” Rosie murmured, handing him a drawing of all seven of them plus Sherlock. 

“I miss him too,” Casper added. 

“Me too!” Gabe piped in. Even  _ Jane _ made a sound from the floor. 

John groaned, and went upstairs.

He didn’t throw the drawing away.

 

* * *

 

One morning, he sent the kids to school early, and left Jane with Irene and Janine. 

When Sherlock knocked on the door, John was alone in the house, ready for a confrontation. 

“Hello,” John said, ushering Sherlock in, a fake smile on his face. 

This was it. This was how he told Sherlock he wasn’t angry anymore, how it was over forever. But the words wouldn’t come to his mouth. 

Sherlock sat on the couch, and John sat right beside him, accepting the ever-present coffee. 

“Thanks,” he murmured for the first time. 

“Cheers,” Sherlock replied, lifting his cup to his mouth. He took a sip, hissed, then put the cup on his thigh. 

“So…” Sherlock started, then stopped. 

“So.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I prepared a few words.”

“Let’s hear ‘em.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Back when we met, I made the mistake of thinking that you were going to save me. I made the mistake of trying to get better for you, to help you and to be with you. And that didn’t end well. Now I know where I was wrong. And I got better. I got clean for myself, and I got a job for myself and tried to feel better for myself, and not for you. So now I know I can be a better boyfriend for you than I could have ever hoped to be before. Because I used to cling to you and use you as an excuse. ‘Oh no, don’t quit abruptly, you need to stay lucid enough to help John.’ ‘Oh, stealing cars is so easy and helps me help John, why stop?’ Now I am my own person, and I feel comfortable in my own skin and honestly, I can be your equal partner. Now you don’t have to worry about me as well, you don’t have a person who agrees with you no matter what because they are afraid to lose you. I love you, I need you and I always will. But I’m not the insecure, scared, addicted nineteen-year-old of a few months ago. And I’m not the monster you made me out to be. I’m William Sherlock Scott Holmes and I love you, I trust you, and I know that I am good for you, just as you are for me. Please, give me one last chance.”

John gritted his teeth. Sherlock had spoken so earnestly, had given John so much of himself, John couldn’t do less. 

“I miss you so much sometimes I can’t breathe. And I want to give you another chance, I do but… I can’t.”

“I’m not asking you to trust me right away,” Sherlock hurried to say, “Let’s date. Let’s start anew, like we never met. We can do this.”

John shook his head, eyes squeezed shut, teeth grinding together. 

“Give me a day to think about it.”

“No. You’ll just convince yourself you shouldn’t, because everyone you have ever trusted has always let you down, me included. But John, I  _ love you _ . And I know I hurt you and I have no excuse, but we can do it. C’mon, we’re Sherlock and John. Does it have to end this way?”

John was on the verge of a panic attack. His breathing was uneven, his lungs wouldn’t work. All the tension of all those months, keeping it together for his siblings, was catching up to him. 

All that act of feigning to feel normal when he was missing Sherlock like misses a limb, when he had full custody of the kids, all that act came crumbling down. Like a castle made of cards. 

Sherlock’s arms were suddenly around him, a buzzing in John’s ears, tears down his cheek. And who was sobbing? 

It took John a while to realize that was him. 

“Sherlock,” he sobbed in the man’s hoodie, and Sherlock hugged him tight, his body quivering as well. 

“John please, I will never bother you again, I swear, just tell me. Yes or no?”

John took a lungful of air and answered without thinking. For once, he let his heart decide. 

“Yes.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, idea time: what do you think if I continued writing in this universe?? If you have any headcanons, ideas, or just like this concept, drop a comment; I will see how many of you are interested and make this work into a series!! 
> 
> Thanks for reading thus far, see you for the epilogue!


	16. The Watsons - Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long, but I went on holiday, and I'm also inspiration-less. So keep the suggestions for other ficlets in this verse coming! What would you to see happening to the Watsons? 
> 
> Make sure to subscribe/bookmark the series I just created, so you won't miss updates on this crazy family! :)
> 
> This is by far my most popular fic, and I thank all of you for this. Thank you for all the love, I'm glad you enjoyed <3

 

* * *

  

One year later

 

* * *

 

When John came back home from his run, he found Sherlock sound asleep, Gabe hugging him tight. They were cute together, John thought with a fond smile, as he watched their hair mingled on the pillow.

John climbed on the bed, and started kissing Sherlock’s cheek and neck and nose.

Sherlock smiled as he woke up, like a happy cat. “Hey,” he said, eyes still closed.

“Hey,” John murmured back, kissing Sherlock’s forehead.

“I’m off to uni today, keep an eye on the kids?”

John was going to uni now. His jobs allowed him to afford it, and now the Holmes liked to play grandparents when John or Sherlock were away. He worked as manager of the Barbarian, and as a gardener for the Holmes. They were more than generous with tips. Mr and Mrs Homes had offered to pay for his tuition, but John had plain refused. He could accept the job, though.

Sherlock nodded, “Sure,” and went back to sleep.

“Also please remember today we have Irene and Janine’s wedding, dress up the kids.”

Sherlock just groaned in reply.

Grinning at his boyfriend, John kissed his ear, ruffled Gabe’s curls, and then ran downstairs.

He _loved_ going to uni. He couldn’t wait to be a doctor.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock _hated_ when John was in uni.

He always wanted John close, and loathed every moment they were apart.

“Come on Gabe, you need to be dressed properly for Irene and Janine’s wedding,” Sherlock sighed, struggling to fix Gabe’s bowtie.

“Why?” asked Gabe with a frown. “Not my fault they marry.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Definitely not your fault, but being elegant is required.”

Gabe pursed his lips, probably wondering what the word ‘required’ meant. In the meantime, Sherlock turned and forced a wailing Jane in a cute lilac dress. 

“Hate it! Hate it!” She cried.

“You see Gabe’s bowtie? It’s lilac. Because Janine and Irene requested lilac. Stop fussing Jane, please.”

Right then, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll take the door!” Harry yelled from upstairs, her steps echoing through the house. She was wearing a smart tux, cut for a woman. She was wearing a lilac bowtie too.

“Gran! Granpa!” Harry smiled, and Sherlock saw his parents on the doorstep, his brother hovering behind with his fresh new husband.

“Where’s John?” Violet asked, looking around, after greeting all the six younger Watson.

“He’s at uni, had a lesson in the morgue today. Should be here soon.”

 

* * *

 

The wedding was absolutely adorable, and everyone had loads of fun.

At the end of the night, Sherlock and John found themselves dancing in the middle of the dancefloor. Rosie was dancing with Siger, Jane and Gabe were asleep on Susan and Harry’s lap while Casper was talking animatedly to Mycroft and Greg about their jobs.

John looked at them all and smiled.

Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s. “Our family,” John murmured, bringing up one finger to caress Sherlock’s cheekbone.

“Our family,” Sherlock reiterated, brushing the tip of his nose against John’s.

“Would you like… this, one day? I mean, getting married.”

Sherlock felt his heart halt in his chest, and then pummel against his ribcage.

“Is this a proposal?”

John’s ears flushed. “I don’t know, are you saying yes?”

Sherlock gasped, all the air in the room vanished.

John looked at him with a tenderly insecure gaze, and Sherlock couldn’t have said anything else.

“I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for every kudos and comment and bookmark, they mean the world to me! 
> 
> See you for the other Watson shenanigans!


End file.
